100 Things You Said
by capitol grasshopper
Summary: "She doesn't even care at this point, she cannot bother with his judging, all she wants - needs - is to get to Clarke and nothing will stop her, most notably not Marcus Kane. Convincing him to help her is another issue completely."
1. When we first met

_AN: If I had to point fingers, google maps would be the first at fault for how long I spent dropping that lil orange man on desert roads, then YouTube for teaching me all about pimping cars, and Wikipedia for the insights on things I have no experience at all!_

 _But most notably, it is all EllanaSan's fault, for she sent me that list of 'things you said when' prompts that morning I was particularly bored at work, and I linked them, one by one, till I had the outline of a kabby AU and some will to give it a try_

 _Shout out to my beta catelynstxrks for being the sweetest enabler!_

* * *

 **Things you said when we first met**

The first time she meets Marcus Kane, she's driving a rental Toyota way over the speed limit in the middle of the desert.

She sees the lights in the rearview mirror before she can hear the sirens over the screeching of the engine, and pulls over cursing everything holy and the smell of burning oil getting stronger when she lowers the glass of the car window.

Of course it's just her luck to run into a patrol when she's in a hurry and still so many miles away from home. Abby should have known fate was out to get her from the very beginning, from when she dropped her phone running to catch a cancelled flight home (shattered, completely smashed, useless thing now lying pitifully on the passenger seat) or when the few cars available for rent were off-roads four-wheel manual - " _Perfect to cross the desert, Ma'am!_ " she recalls the clerk helpfully supplying at the sinking hope depicted on her face.

She watches in the side mirror a tall and lean man wearing aviators and a sheriff's hat approaching at a leisurely pace, and tries - ineffectively - to control her impatience by brushing back a strand of wavy hair that bounces back in place.

"Good evening, Madam," he says - and by the sound of it it doesn't seem like a very good one - "did you happen to see the very big, very bright speed limit sign over there?" he asks towering on the other side of the open window, pointing to the arrow-straight road where a few miles back a square is fastened to a pole.

Abby clutches her necklace like a lifeline, but she schools her tone into _deep regret_ mode when she answers: "I'm so sorry..." and she narrows her eyes against the setting sun to get a glimpse of his nameplate, unsuccessfully. "Sheriff, I will be more careful, I promise."

It doesn't usually work but she tries a friendly smile anyway, the alternative being throwing a tantrum and making it even more difficult to quietly slip away and be on her merry way. The faster, the better.

His lips twitch upwards for a fraction of a second and she almost thinks he is - definitely not fooled, but - amused by her antics; then he leans in slightly to get a better view of the inside of the vehicle. He takes in her manicured hands, golden bracelet and wedding ring, open bag on the passenger's seat, styled curls and tailored, smart dress, and by his pursed lips she guesses she doesn't look like his usual tourist or passer-by. "Madam, can I see your license and registration, please?"

"Of course," she answers (too cheerfully, she has to cringe) stretching on her side to get the documents from the dashboard where she tossed them, hiding a roll of the eyes and a prayer to at least let it be quick.

He takes the papers she offers through the window and retraces his steps back to his car (ever so slowly; she thinks it might be deliberate).

All she can think of while the man runs her numbers is Clarke, how very late it is and how she'd love to get rid of frustratingly slow County Sheriffs who should be investigating the illegal fires that are _surely_ still burning - _somewhere,_ seriously, the stench was insufferable ever since she left the gas station - instead of stopping innocent ladies hurrying home for supper.

When he's back in front of her window she stops drumming her nails on the wheel self-consciously but she figures there is no point in hiding her frustration by now. The look on his face is not promising.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Doctor Griffin?"

Abby tucks her license back in her bag's pocket and readies one of her polite smiles just for the sake of appearances: "I was eager to get home… for a medical emergency," she replies.

She can't be sure she fooled him, because she can't read the man behind the shades as she's used to read most people, but she thinks he's perplexed by her answer, like he expected that conversation to go in a very different direction, yet still on the fence about letting her go. She studies him: the shadow of a five o'clock stubble suggests he's at the end of his shift, the grimace tells her he can smell the stench of burnt oil too, but that's not what's bothering him at the moment. "Home? As in Los Angeles?"

Abby purses her lips before spitting curtly: "Yes."

At this point she's mostly irritated by the twitching eyebrow of this man looking at her in disbelief and she's ready to drop her act, request he just gives her the speeding ticket or hear a piece of her mind, when he speaks again: "Madam, are you aware this is not the road to California? You were heading north."

Abby squints at the setting sun slowly making its way to the flat, empty horizon behind the sheriff's silhouette and her mental map suddenly shifts into perspective. _Fuck?_

It takes her a few seconds to address him again when he asks if she, maybe, needs escorting (or a map).

"What? No, I..." She blinks. She must look mortified because he gives her a small sympathetic smile as he fishes a pen from his pocket.

"I will have to give you a ticket, Doctor Griffin," he says in his overly polite tone. But the boyish grin he can't erase tells her he's having the time of his life. Of course, what else could be going on in his little square of desert if writing a ticket to foreign speeding ladies provides such a thrill on a Friday night. (Illegal fires seem to be no concern of his anyway).

He gives her instructions to go back to the main road, she accepts the paper and promises to drive home safely, so the sheriff tips his hat and - reluctantly - leaves her with a last irritating smirk her way.

Except he's not yet behind his wheel when she tries to start the engine and a puff of smoke rises outside her windshield instead. Abby is not one to dive into a panic but the day's been long and stressful already and she can just feel her breath catching and her pulse quickening. A few tries later and the rental Toyota still won't start and she watches in horror as the sheriff drives off, leaving her in the middle of the desert with no phone and no car, and most definitely no luck.

* * *

 _AN2: and that's about the shape of it. Meet the mechanic tomorrow!_


	2. That made me feel like shit

_AN: who's gonna fix that car? Come on guess!  
_

* * *

 **Things you said that made me feel like shit**

He must think her hysterical in the end, uttering a purposefully chosen string of curses to get his attention and waving her arms in the air to be seen. And he sees her, in his rearview mirror, running after him in the middle of a deserted road, white smoke lifting from the Toyota left behind. She doesn't even care at this point, she cannot bother with his judging, all she wants - needs - is to get to Clarke and nothing will stop her, most notably not Marcus Kane.

Convincing him to help her is another issue completely. He can't tow the rental Toyota anywhere with the department's car and he has the nerve to _reason_ with her that finding a mechanic on a Friday evening will prove nearly impossible.

And yet, after a very firm, very little thought out speech about duty and community - " _To serve and protect_ , remember?" she yelled at some point, completely ignoring that he is not a Los Angeles police officer, "I see very little _serve_ here!" To which he raised his eyebrows and his hands - he finally puts the radio to good use.

Thirty-seven minutes and a number of phone calls later Abby is pacing back and forth on the greasy concrete floor of a garage next to the lifted hood of the car, still clutching the ring on her necklace to keep her sanity (and avoiding the dark looks she gets from the man).

"I thought you'd be at Monty's with Collins and the kids tonight," says Sheriff Kane peering inside the car's hood at the mechanic working overtime. He lost his aviators when they entered the shady building off the main road with chipped paint peeling off the walls.

"You got lucky," comes the muffled answer "Finn called to say he was meeting with a professor for his last paper so he's still in Phoenix."

Abby has no idea who these people are and mostly doesn't care. The closest rental agency is over an hour drive away (in Nevada) and a local mechanic is her next best chance.

She's not sure she can trust the dark-haired girl currently burying her head in the Toyota, though; she looks far too young to own the workshop, but she's accordingly covered in grease and looking comfortable around dismantled rusty metal sheets.

Before she goes mental she has to ask: "Is there any chance I can be home tonight?"

Raven Reyes emerges from under the hood, shaking her ponytail free of the protective mask strings and raising an eyebrow. "Not with this car, nope," she admits with a far too melodious voice for that kind of news.

Abby's hope sinks lower and something akin fear starts to coil around her throat.

"I don't know how you did it," continues the young mechanic, "but the engine's busted, it threw a rod and the gasket blew, it's havoc in here," she concludes wiping her hands on a cloth.

"She revved out?" guesses the sheriff, apparently understanding the girl's language. "Just how fast were you driving?" he inquires then looking pointedly at Abby.

"And for how long?" presses Raven. "You exhausted the rev limiter too." The girl looks almost impressed, whatever she did to break the car must be a feat.

Abby - who can't take any pride in it - stands there shifting her eyes from one to the other, open mouthed, unable to grasp the reality (beyond the simple fact she is not getting any closer to home).

"Can you fix it?" she pleads, desperation creeping in her voice.

"Sure," says the girl with a cheeky smile. "But not tonight, unless you have a spare engine," she adds to Abby's utter dismay.

The girl goes on muttering incomprehensible details about the Toyota's sad end and the sheriff nods along while she zones out for a minute, weighing her options. Only to find out she has no real option but to find another rental. When she asks she's met with two pairs of round eyes and raised brows.

"It's Friday night, everywhere's closed," explains Raven.

"And besides," adds Kane with an offended look, taking a protective step between the doctor and the broken Toyota, "You just got a speeding ticket, Madam, not to mention you blew the engine of this one. I would advise no one to rent you a car, ever again. Hell, I should probably suspend your license. You could have caused an accident!"

However much she tries to control it, she can feel her temper rising as she stares into Kane's dark eyes staring back at her. The man is beyond obtuse (never mind he doesn't know the whole story), and too close for comfort, he seems hell-bent on preventing her from going home, one way or another. For whatever - irrational - reason, it feels personal.

 _Clarke,_ she thinks, _Clarke_ is all her brain supplies at this point. Despite her efforts her eyes fill with tears of rage and, probably, desperation - that looks like madness to the untrained eye.

If she is honest with herself, she mostly feels guilty.

Raven picks up on her clenched jaw and tensed muscles - matching Kane's - and before sparks and (otherwise better rest unspoken) words fly, she speaks first: "Come on, Sheriff, the lady is already in distress," she says, poking at his sense of duty. "Let's see what we can do to help."

Kane relaxes his stance and Abby takes a strangled breath.

"First I need to know," starts the sheriff with a pointed finger, "Why is it so important you be home tonight? Why the rush?"

She glances at Raven (who's pretending to go back to her tools by the car) and her pursed lips tell her there is no escaping this one. Through gritted teeth, Abby tells them everything.


	3. Through your teeth

**Things you said through your teeth**

"It's my daughter," she concedes in a shaky breath.

He knows she was lying. Or at the very least hiding something. From the very moment her car sped up in front of him leaving that screeching noise in its wake, Marcus knew. He chased the Toyota with lights and sirens, if anything to put an end to the abuse on that engine.

So she finally confesses - albeit unwillingly - and they listen. She starts from the beginning, from the Continuing Medical Education Conference in Albuquerque and the cancelled flight back to Los Angeles, she tells them, with crimson cheeks, that she clumsily dropped the phone on the sidewalk, destroying her only source of information (because nobody remembers their list of contacts anymore) and GPS signal in the process, that when she managed to get to the top of the line at the rental agency they only had two cars left and they were both manual transmission (which she never knew how to operate - before) and blatantly lied just to get behind the wheel and on her way home.

"I learned by trials and errors," she says haughtily "I managed to shift up to fourth, fifth would keep grating when I tried so I gave up. But after I stopped for gas I couldn't go past third anymore."

His skin itches as he hears in his head the Toyota's grating call for help. _It must have cost a fortune in gas too_ , he can't help thinking. She doesn't seem to pay any mind to money though, which tells him she's either very wealthy, or very desperate.

"So you just... floored it and let it run like that for..." Raven is beyond herself, gesticulating wildly, caught in a fascination between amusement and horror at the tale of how the forsaken Toyota ended up in her workshop. _A wonder no one stopped her sooner_.

"How old is your daughter?" Marcus asks shifting the conversation back on tracks and making a point of it by taking a step closer.

"Clarke is twelve; look," the doctor says, lifting one hand in front of her as to stop any further enquiry, "I know it sounds bad, but you have to believe me this was never supposed to happen, I was supposed to be home by now, I never left Clarke alone before, she's..."

The woman takes a deep breath trying to control the panic that's starting to arise and Kane surprises himself sympathizing with her struggle. He drops his shoulders and waits for her to catch herself.

"I tried to call home from a public phone at the gas station," she continues "but no one answered. She should have been home but no one answered the phone!"

Raven sends him an accusing glare, like he's responsible for the woman's distress, and he feels pressed to reassure her (somehow), but being a natural pessimist he can't really think of anything and - with horror - hears himself suggesting instead: "Maybe she never made it home."

He's rewarded with a kick in the shin from the mechanic while the doctor's head snaps up; her wide and watery eyes meet his. He can read the fear in there again, she shakes her head (and a mane of soft shiny waves), looks away, and he's at a complete loss as to what to do next.

With shock, he discovers his first instinct is to wrap her in his arms, right in the middle of the garage.

He doesn't, though; he schools himself to stay very still before he makes a fool of himself, and Raven (bless her) is quicker to suggest they try again. When this time too the phone rings to no avail, he radios Deputy Byrne and asks her to contact the LA department to send a patrol to check on the Griffins' address.

The sun is behind the horizon when they leave Raven's shop for the Sheriff's office. As they listen to the radio from the LA patrol car, Marcus has to admit Mrs Griffin is one of a kind.

He and Raven both caught up fast on the fact she had a wedding ring but no husband to talk about. Then he noticed her gripping tightly her golden necklace whenever she needed some strength - like now, eavesdropping on Deputy Miller and young Monroe's radio report - and the second wedding band hanging there. Whatever odds fate sent her way, she still has faith.

" _The front door is locked and the lights are off_ ," comes a young woman's voice through the radio. " _We'll circle to the backyard, hang on_."

Marcus silently contemplates the doctor's lips forming a prayer (or a curse, he can't be sure) and the motion is fascinating. He almost doesn't register Miller's voice announcing that the house is indeed empty. Byrne compensates requesting they take a sweep in the neighborhood just to be sure.

" _Do we have a missing minor on our hands?_ " asks Miller's voice " _Negligence on the parents' side?_ "

Byrne looks at him for confirmation as she answers: "Not yet, keep looking."

He nods in agreement and ends the radio transmission after the customary set phrases between departments.

It's the bell at the closing door that alerts them both that Abby Griffin has left.

Marcus stumbles down the few steps to ground level and spots her crossing the street, dragging her little suitcase behind her shapely bottom.

"Mrs Griffin!" he calls after her.

But she doesn't stop, takes left and starts down the road.

"Madam, where do you think you're going?"

"Home, if I have to walk there!"

He catches up and blocks her escape with raised hands. "Please, this is insane." It's the wrong thing to say, he knows as soon as the words are out.

Her eyes widen and her jaw clenches. He thinks she's ready to explode in hysterics; instead she surprises him again by lowering her voice even further. "If you can't help, then leave me alone."

Then she sticks out her thumb at a passing car.

He can't believe this woman. Relentlessly trying his patience and stressing her dumb luck (or lack thereof).

"You can't hitchhike in here!"

"It's not against the law," she stubbornly states glaring at him. There's a boldness and a simmering rage in the way she holds her ground, and despite him towering over her small frame, he feels defenseless.

"It's reckless," he points out, "and it's gonna get you in danger, it's my duty to prevent- Wait!"

She's stepped around him and keeps walking and he sighs loudly, throwing his hands in the air.

"If you'd stopped to think for a minute and asked for help instead of rushing through things, maybe you'd be home by now!"

"Like you were any help, thanks Sheriff." she mumbles to the empty road, no intention to stop.

"Well, if you'd tell me sooner about your daughter..." he teases, on the pursuit.

"So you could think I'm a terrible mother? On top of everything else," she snaps then, but still refuses to slow down or to look at him. He has to walk sideways to try and catch her attention. "I know how these things go..." she adds.

That's when it hits him, that this rich widow's biggest fear is to lose her daughter too. That if the girl's missing is because she wasn't home to greet her at the end of the day or that if anyone spreads the rumor she is incapable to take care of her daughter on her own (because of the workload required by a single parent or otherwise) they'll take her away, no matter how many figures her bank account shows.

"I don't think you're a terrible mother," Marcus says softly "I don't know you and- all I know is you had a horrible day and you're worried for your daughter. Please, let me help."

When he grips her wrist and turns her around finally informing her she's going in the wrong direction her eyes are red rimmed and glossy.


	4. While we were driving

_AN: that's the prompt that made this an AU in the first place (because 'driving'?). I regret nothing. Not a single cliché!_

* * *

 **Things you said while we were driving**

They stop in front of a house that doesn't look like it belongs there. It has a patch of green on its side, for instance, and she can spot trees in the back.

Kane climbs the steps to the front porch and asks her if she needs to freshen up before they leave. "It's going to be a long ride."

Abby ducks in a small service bathroom underneath the staircase as he disappears on the upper floor. He reemerges changed into civilian clothes: black jeans and a black shirt with his sunglasses hooked on the collar. He grabs a leather jacket hanging by the front door and she almost rolls her eyes. Of course he's a smug little shit, she thinks, but that won't stop her from ogling his rear end.

The sun is giving its last rays to graze the shiny black body of a '65 convertible Ford Mustang with white leather interiors in his driveway. Its trunk is where he lowers her suitcase, then circles around and unlocks the doors, looks pointedly at her from above the roof and asks: "Do you wanna open it up?"

She purses her lips but can't help the grin tugging at the corners when he wiggle his eyebrows like an overconfident teen. He's stealthily distracting her from her worries, she knows, and she's grateful for it.

Folding the roof of the car feels a bit like lifting the covers of a bed on a wedding night (maybe because he's watching her mirroring his movements on the other side of the Mustang) and she feels an unwelcomed flush spread up her neck and cheeks - on which he gracefully doesn't comment.

They are both silent as he drives off. It's only after they're back on the road, speeding in the direction she came from, that he informs her he left instructions to his Deputy to call if there are news. She nods, slightly reassured, eyes still on the road ahead, Jake's wedding ring tight in her grip.

Kane's driving is smooth, the Mustang glides on the blacktop as on a railway, the engine purring softly once they're back on the interstate heading east. The sun left a pale horizon against a growing dark cover of stars and she feels like she's running towards the light at the end of a tunnel, tinged with the knowledge she ultimately won't make it. It's too quiet above the twirling of the wind ruffling their hair, Abby sucks in her breath and closes her eyes. "I'm coming Clarke," she whispers to the wind.

 _Clarke_.

Clarke coming down the stairs and sitting up at the kitchen table, eyes still half closed, golden messy braid and a pout for the morning call; Clarke running up the driveway in her school uniform with daisies she picked at the park for her mother; Clarke asleep on her father's lap as they watch a movie on tv; Clarke crawling up their bed in the middle of the night mumbling about nightmares; _Clarke_... in their home.

But Clarke is not home anymore and she tries not to think about her in a different setting (because all of those images are directly coming from the crime news section), she tries to recall the memories but her mind is crowded with them all and they tangle up and mix and she's afraid to forget something - anything - like she forgot Jake's smell three years from his death. Holding back the anxiety feels like drowning.

Then Kane turns the radio on.

"I hope you don't mind," he says.

She doesn't, of course (she's breathing again). She looks at him suspiciously because she has the distinct impression he knew where her mind was wandering just then.

"In the glovebox there's an iPod," he informs her "It's plugged to the car's sound system. See if you can find something you like, make a playlist, maybe?"

Abby squints at him but he's got his eyes on the road and a deadly serious expression as he passes a transporter.

While the radio speakers are babbling something or other on the background, she takes out the iPod and starts browsing the library: mostly classics, some blues, rock and roll, and old Hollywood soundtracks.

She selects some then hits play and the first notes of Iggy Pop's _The Passenger_ escape the sound system.

His smirk broadens to a genuinely amused smile (and her stomach clenches with a pang of... something undefined).

As Janis Joplin comes up next, she notices the sound is not what you'd expect off of '65 Mustang's radio speakers. It has a custom dashboard too, with modern led milometer and clock numbers, a USB port and brackets where Kane hooked his iPhone.

He seems to pick up on her silent scrutiny because he explains unprompted: "Raven insisted on some extra technology."

"Raven did this?" She is impressed now by the young mechanic skills.

"It's her long term project," he continues with a hint of pride he can't conceal. "We started when she was sixteen."

Abby listens as he chats away her dark thoughts with sunburnt images from his memories, images she associates with the faces smiling from the pictures she spied displayed in his living-room. Raven is there, Kane's arm on her teenage shoulders, jeans cut short and an obscure heavy metal band t-shirt, shading her eyes from the desert sun with a sheriff's hat.

"Her mother was an addict. In and out of rehab, we picked her pushing countless times," he says "We helped Raven becoming an emancipated minor after she and Finn tried to run to Vegas to get married." In her mind Abby sees a smiling, clean faced boy showing a Phoenix University acceptance letter to the camera as David Bowie sings _Rebel Rebel_.

"You helped her with the garage?"

"I thought of keeping her mind from getting bored." _And turn to alcohol and drugs_ , she supplies "My mother nagged me to get around restoring my father's Ford or dumping it at the scrapyard so I got _her_ to help _me_. At least till she took over completely," he adds with fake resentment. "She's a little genius."

Abby remembers another picture of the girl with sunkissed skin crouching next to the Mustang's dismantled frame. Neil Young's voice is tuning _Heart Of Gold_ in the background and the night is blissfully chilly, Kane's dark eyes are lit by flashbacks of his own and the occasional headlight of passing cars. Abby looks at him, _really_ looks at the sheriff's profile as the landscape glides and blurs and fades away, and she's struck by how radically the image she had of him changed in the space of a few hours. He started out as the enemy and even if she can't blame herself for not trusting anyone on her path (she can't forget the last time she asked for help her husband died) she still misjudged his character so deeply her cheeks flush with a hint of shame.

"Raven could be a rocket scientist, she should have gotten a scholarship," he continues "but her school records are spotty and discontinuous at best so, since my mother had that unused space full of junk, I let her open up shop there when she turned eighteen."

An older woman with Kane's kind eyes, sitting in his backyard, smiling from a picture flashes in Abby's memory. "And your mother didn't mind?" she asks.

His smile is full of sad fondness when he answers: "My mother died last year."

And Abby's heart clenches. "I'm sorry," she mumbles (restraining herself from reaching out and awkwardly touching his shoulder in a comforting manner) unsure if he can hear her above the whistling wind and the engine's roll and the music.

 _This man is a stranger_ , she chides herself. Yet oddly enough he's not. He's driving her across the desert and she feels deep in her bones - for how his kindness is driven by duty - that he wouldn't do it just for anyone. He makes her feel _special_ (in a way she can't pinpoint herself).

He changes subject after that, asks her about her job and she has to answer she's a cardiologist - even though at the moment she is baffled by how little she knows of her own heart. She tells him about her work at the hospital and her volunteering as a consultant at a clinic, about the conference in Albuquerque, and then she tells him about Clarke and hours pass and suddenly it's almost midnight and her stomach grumbles - loudly - because neither of them had dinner and he laughs with mirth confessing his own hunger.

Stealers Wheel plays _Stuck In The Middle With You_ when Kane pulls over at a service station and Abby swears in the back of her mind that she can't possibly be crushing on the scruffy, cocky County Sheriff.


	5. When you were scared

**Things you said when you were scared**

She offers to pay for everything so he refills at the pump and parks opposite the diner entrance as she goes ahead inside the flat top building with the broken neon light. There is little traffic, the parking lot almost empty, just a pickup truck and a couple of transporters. The only sound is the buzz of insects attracted by the spot light above the pump, the darkness of the desert all around.

He fishes his duty weapon from under the seat where he'd holstered it and tucks it back at his belt next to the star shaped badge - even if the road is hidden behind fences and there's no one around.

He casts a last look at the spotless white interiors of his Mustang and sighs. He hopes whatever she'll have to take away won't be drooling on the leather and littering the carpet - too much. Then follows her inside.

She's at the counter, her back to the entrance, contemplating greasy looking sandwiches of dubious freshness, and he hides a sneer for how out of place she looks in that setting. Her smart blue dress, designer heels, and that cascade of luscious tawny curls down her back are enthralling the other guests too: the plump woman with dark skin behind the counter is openly checking her out and the two truck drivers (a younger one sitting with a braggart attitude, and a sturdier carrot-top with a mustache and a fuzzy goatee) sharing a table by the window stop their hushed confabulating when his glare drops on them.

Judging by the tight grip on her bag strap she's finding it all slightly uncomfortable.

"I'll have a coffee," he orders with a reassuring smile for the doctor "and chicken nuggets. Take-away."

She smiles back at him, then ultimately orders a veggie sandwich (probably hoping for the best), a bottle of water and picks a chocolate bar snack from the stand next to the register. While she hands out a credit card to cover for both the meal and the gas refill one of the truck drivers in the corner sniggers at the woman behind the counter to _treat them good_ : "These are no regulars, Nygel."

Nygel shakes her afro head of hair giving Mrs Griffin her card and the transaction receipt back to sign - which she does with a Waterman pen. "And how do we know that," counters Nygel "because they are too good looking to be regulars."

All three of them burst into coarse laughters and Marcus takes the cue to signal his lady ( _his_ lady?!) that they might stop by the toilet before hitting the road again. She nods and disappears behind the other restroom door.

When he comes out in the diner again he's surprised to find her already there (probably the fastest woman to get in and out of a toilet he ever encountered - but considering the state of it he can't blame her) receiving the take-away bag over the counter top. She politely thanks the other woman and they meet halfway to the door, his hand finding the small of her back instinctively as they pass the now empty seats by the window.

It's the shortest of trips to his car but the lights from the diner go off suddenly, and she's almost running, then colliding with the younger truck driver appearing out of the shadows, and stumbling backwards till Marcus grabs her by the shoulders, steadies her on her feet, feels her shiver - sure that it's not his touch but the menacing glint in the eyes of the man in front of them.

"Watch it, lady," warns the other one's voice at their back. He hears him circling around while the younger one takes out a baton and swings it in front of them.

Mrs Griffin stands petrified at his side, eyes wide shifting from the thugs to his and then to the car, and he's sure her mind is running a hundred miles per hour thinking she's not home, and she won't be home, won't find Clarke and won't be able to protect her daughter anymore...

He's about to speak up when she beats him to it: "What do you want?" she asks in an impossibly low voice.

"What do you think?" comes the reply. A baseball bat materializes in Carrot-top hands just then.

Marcus takes a calming breath and shifts the corner of his leather jacket enough to expose the star shaped badge. "Guys, just... There's still time to move out of the way, please," he says gesturing lightly not to elicit any harsh reaction.

But the younger one just makes a face to the other and informs him: "Hey Ridley, we have a cop."

They both snicker mockingly, exchanging jokes about robbing the police, looking at his car (and his blood is boiling with the image of _anyone_ touching his Mustang), so when he sees her creeping a hand into her bag he thinks she's giving up her wallet altogether. Instead she comes out holding a stun gun and Marcus does what he has to do (suppressing a roll of his eyes) and half a second later draws his weapon, standing beside her, pointing it to the one called Ridley while she's aiming at the boy standing between them and the Mustang as they come to a face off.

Everyone stays still for a split second.

He can see it in the thug's eyes he's not giving her bravery a second thought but he knows better. He knows to what length she'd go for her daughter and right now the poor guy is standing in her way.

"Drop your weapons and move out of the way," Marcus orders again.

They seem reluctant to comply at first, but then something behind them catches their attention and he almost turns around, sure to find Nygel there - probably pointing a weapon of her own to them - but then they slowly nod and shift away from the car, dropping their bats loudly on the concrete floor.

He follows their movements with his gun till he judges them at a safe distance, digs his hand into his jeans pocket and slips the car keys into the doctor's hands. "Get in the car," he instructs her.

She drops her purse and the plastic bag with the food on the car's floor behind the driver seat, fumbles with the door lock with shaky fingers then finally sits behind the wheel and starts the engine. Nothing else moves and he thinks either they have been judged not worthy of the risk and are going to be ok, or they are about to be taken down for the very same reason. But he keeps his expression neutral for Mrs Griffin's benefit. _It's going to be ok, we're gonna be ok_ , he convinces himself - or tries to.

He joins her on the passenger side without taking his eyes off the two glowering figures. As soon as he's in the car - door not yet closed - she backs up then drives off (leaving a trail of screeching tires on the ground).

Marcus holsters the gun at his side when they hit the blacktop of the interstate again, turns halfway, grabbing the seatback to steady himself, and bores his eyes into the night. Behind them only the taillights of the Mustang and the starry sky. _They're gonna be ok_.

He finally lets go of a nervous breath and almost laughs out loud to release the tension but it stays strangled in his throat when he takes in the doctor's white knuckles around the wheel, her gasping breath and haunted eyes - not moving from the road ahead but not quite focused, clearly in some sort of shock.

"Are you ok?" he asks softly, gliding closer on the front bench.

She nods, eyes shifting from the road to the rearview mirror to check behind them, foot pushing the pedal impossibly further to the ground (he tries not to glance at the milometer, he just knows they're speeding way above the limit (and without seatbelts locked), but the road is - not empty but - clear enough).

He ventures a hand to her shoulder, feeling her relax at once, like stepping out of a different reality to crash back to earth. She lifts the foot from the pedal then, and leaves the car to gradually slow down till she has to use the turn signal and pull over on the side of the desert road.

Marcus watches her resting her forehead on the wheel for awhile, listening to her breathing going back to normal - and he thinks maybe the comforting pattern of his hand warming her back is helping in that.

"I'm sorry," she whispers behind the curtain of her hair. He doesn't know what she is sorry for, exactly - if for her reckless response to the threat or for putting him in that predicament in the first place - but of one thing he is sure: it doesn't matter at this point. He knows he'll follow her to the end of the earth to keep her safe. A frightening new reality he has no time to adjust to.

"It's ok, nothing happened, we're safe," he repeats out loud "No one is following us, we're safe."

He's convincing himself too, he knows, but she doesn't, she lifts her eyes on him and they are big and dark and glossy and all he wants in that moment is to smooth a curly strand out of her face and kiss that terrified look off of her.

"Thank you Sheriff," she says in a soft, barely audible voice.

"Call me Marcus," he corrects her.

"Marcus..." she practices his name - and he finds himself smiling at her stupidly for how good it sounds out of her lips.

"Do you want me to drive?"

She nods and he lifts the arm rest dividing the seats on the front bench, shifting closer.

She braces herself on the seatback and his shoulder and rises above him, effectively straddling his hips in an attempt to climb over and land on the other side. That's when he meets her necklace on the nose and his hands shoot at her hips to steady her instinctively and they both look up surprised to find themselves face to face like that.

He swallows.

She wets her lips and diverts her eyes, a lovely shade of red creeping up her neck - and he only knows because her breast (and throat and tickling curls) is right _there_ in front of him. He should stop staring at the perfect curve of her neckline, he should, he knows, he's schooling himself to look up, but when he does _there_ is her mouth - she's biting her bottom lip now - and eyes staring back at him.

He shifts further, letting go of her, so she can crash down on the other seat, squeezed in between the passenger door and his side. With a sigh, she rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.

"You need a moment?"

She nods again against his chest and he thinks he hears her say something he doesn't quite catch so she repeats gingerly: _Abby_.

Abby takes long deep breaths of chilly night air and his cologne, slings an arm across his middle and sighs contentedly. He gathers her even closer and swears to never let go.


	6. After it was over

_AN: [SPOILER] don't be fooled by this title_

* * *

 **Things you said after it was over**

Closing the roof of the Mustang was a good idea. It's quieter without the whistling of the wind and it feels... protected. _She_ feels protected, as irrational as it sounds. _The night was growing colder anyway_ , she remembers musing, looking out of the window at the black starry sky and the distant moon.

And that was the last of her conscious thoughts before falling asleep.

She wakes up lulled by the dainty swaying of the car and The Doors playing _The End_ very softly. Somehow her hand is in Marcus' hand where they meet in the middle of the bench and he's stroking her knuckles gently with his thumb, absentmindedly, his eyes on the road (always on the road), oblivious to her contemplation.

She never meant to fall asleep, she was exhausted, worn out by the eventful day and its disquiets. He's had his coffee, she's only nibbled at her sandwich (and stole a nugget from his box with a daring look, just to see him shake his head at her, grinning back) and then her mind started wandering again and that's when he found her hand, she thinks - she doesn't remember, but one thing is clear: she let herself relax enough to slumber, relinquishing all control to this man, this _stranger_ , who holds her hand and drives her home across the desert and seems to genuinely care.

Abby Griffin from yesterday would have never.

Instead of panicking at the thought she peers at him through half closed eyelids. He is handsome - even with mussed hair, sleepy eyes and unshaved - in a non eye-catching way, yet managed to seize her attention _just like that_ , she thinks. But it's gratitude she feels, just gratitude. It must be that, it's been so long since she had to rely on someone else, since Jake (and she swore to never find herself in that predicament again).

They're skirting the city by now and even if it's the dead of night traffic increases so he has to untangle their fingers and she takes the small change as cue to feign waking up. He smiles warmly at her, she - melts, then - smiles back a bit embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes between yawns.

"You deserved a little rest," he concedes with a dismissive hand gesture. "We're almost there, Abby."

Her mind flies back to Clarke and the lack of a plan - beside getting closer to where her daughter was last. She guides him across the city night lights and despite herself she grows restless by the minute, anxious, but still believing, hoping, cursing and praying... _everything is gonna be ok, we're gonna be ok_.

Until he parks in front of her home and she all but jumps out of the car and onto her porch where the door is locked and the house is dark, just like Deputy Miller and Monroe said it was.

Marcus comes in after her and she's rushing, switching the lights on, calling after Clarke from room to room till she's back in the living-room, breathless and frantic because no one's home and fate is mercilessly still out to get her.

S _he's not here_! She feels tears filling up her eyes - as her faith drowns - and when they spill out of her lashes Marcus catches her by the shoulders, holds her up, shakes her gently.

"You said she comes home from her art course at six on Fridays," he reminds her. That's when she sees the discarded backpack on the floor by the front door and runs to pick it up.

"This is her schoolbag, she came home then, she was here!" she reasons. "Then she left?!"

The puzzlement leaves her almost dizzy. _Why? Did someone take her?_ She looks around terrified but everything seems in the right place. There are shoes all over the floor in front of the rack under the staircase, from when Clarke probably couldn't find the pair she wanted, but nothing is knocked out or broken (except her heart).

 _And the door was locked... Did she leave on her own accord? Where could she go?_

Marcus does his own inspection and peers into the kitchen. "Is that message new?" he asks from across the room.

Abby is at his side in two strides, looking wide eyed at the horrible calligraphy of a hurried twelve years old scribbling on the whiteboard hanging on the fridge: _Mom, there's no frozen pizza left! (and no ice-cream!) going to get cheeseburgers, xoxo C_.

No, the message wasn't there when she left, but it's almost three in the morning and something - anything - might have happened to her girl on the way to the fast food and back. Most notably because she's not home, _she is not home_. Before she can even suppress the sobs, she's running out the door and in the streets. She's mildly aware of Marcus following, taking better care of things - like closing the front door - till he catches up with her at the crossroad, in time to grab her wrist and bring her back to the safety of the sidewalk before a bike runs her over.

The fastfood Clarke is used to have her extra snacks at is just across the street but from there it looks dark and... closed.

"It's three in the morning, Abby," he reminds her delicately upon seeing her defeated expression.

Marcus blocks her blurred field of vision and her eyes shoot to his, pleading - for something as inane as a spark of hope. Her breath is ragged and a shiver runs up her spine; she can't wait, can't stay, but she's rooted on the spot, she needs to move, find Clarke… _Clarke._ She's panicking and most definitely not helping matters but she can't think of anything beside: _Clarke is not safe_ (and it's all her fault) _._

"She left you a message, at that point she was still waiting for you to come home," he rationalizes, effectively bringing her back to focus on his determined face, lit by the orange pulsing traffic light "She was probably worried too, she might have tried to call you."

"But the phone was already broken," she counters, dismissing the lead.

"It would have gone straight to voicemail then."

Abby stares at him wide eyed, her lips parted in surprise. It was that simple. She should have thought about checking her voicemail sooner, she chides herself hurrying back home, Marcus in tow, again, praying for a stroke of luck (a missing feature in her recent history).

She loses six precious minutes looking for the discarded cordless (prompting him to offer his iPhone momentarily abandoned in the car), then finds it in the kitchen in an empty fruit basket - solid proof her daughter used it - and calls her own cell phone number with clammy fingers slipping on the keys.

Marcus shadows her by the kitchen table, waiting for her to enter the passcode, arms crossed on his chest and furrowed brow, trying to assess the damage by her response to the - way too - cheerful voice announcing she has four new voice messages.

The first one was recorded at 7:41PM: " _Mom, where are you?_ " It's Clarke's impatient voice and Abby holds her breath, the phone pressed to her ear so tight her skin is on fire; but that's all there is, Clarke hangs up. She has a surge of disappointment and lets out a gasping breath that doesn't do anything to soothe her.

The second is from over an hour later, she puts it on speaker so the sheriff can listen too: " _Mom, did I get the days mixed? I thought you'd be home tonight. I already had a cheeseburger!_ " Clarke yells enthusiastically then hangs up again and Abby is now boring her eyes in Marcus' for it seems the only thing reminding her to breathe.

She bites her lip and keeps listening to the voicemail record indicating her next message is from 10.51PM: " _Mom? I called Wells, they're coming to get me, I_ swear _I thought you said you'd be home on Friday!_ " whines Clarke. Abby's eyes fills involuntarily and she blinks the tension away, pressing a hand to her lips. " _Wells' dad said I can stay at their house like last night, I set the DVR for_ Hawaii Five-O _, no way you watch it without me, so don't touch it!_ " the teenager warns, then hangs up again and Abby squeezes her eyes shut and feels Marcus quiet chuckle through the fabric of his shirt (unaccountably tangled in her fist).

"Bossy," he comments lightly.

Her girl is fine, she's fine, Clarke is safe, she repeats herself shaking her head, feeling foolish for overreacting (and then reprimanding herself for it, because her worry was legitimate, she's her mother, and Clarke her only child) as the fourth and last message plays: it's Wells' father, Thelonious, informing her Clarke is indeed staying at his house. " _Abby, I checked your flight online and I saw it's been cancelled, don't worry for Clarke, I hope you're ok and it's just the phone battery running out, call me when you're back._ "

She just takes deep calming breaths, letting her forehead fall on Marcus' shoulder, and when she looks up at him she bursts into strangled giggles and unabashed tears. He grins back at her knowingly and just stands there, offering a stable and solid anchor for that ever spinning world.

He leaves her to call Jaha then (even if it's the middle of the night and he was probably sleeping) and moves back in the living-room where she finds him again looking out the window to the empty street.

"They're bringing Clarke home for breakfast," she informs him putting the cordless back in its base.

Marcus smiles and she doesn't know if it's her mind playing tricks on her but it looks pensive. Or sleepy. He doesn't comment further so they both drop on the sofa with a sigh that sounds final in the quiet of the neighborhood, as all the tension that kept them going disappeared suddenly and the whole exertion of the day comes crashing down on the both of them.

"What now?" she asks softly after a while.

"We could... sleep," he suggests fidgeting with his hands.

She hums drowsily, captivated by the geometric pattern of a blanket carefully folded on the armchair. The concept his definition of _sleep_ could include other bed activities flashes through her tired brain and sobers her up a little bit. "There's a guest room upstairs," she says as if an afterthought, just in case. But her words are lost because when she dares turn to look at him he's sound asleep and she has to chastise her exhausted, uninhibited mind again.

Maybe it's the weariness, or maybe it's her relentless curiosity, still she can't help staring then, taking in all the details she was previously blind to. By the warm light of the table lamp she discovers a map of small scars on his face: on his cheek, his forehead, next to his left eye, his chin (and wonders about their cause, if they're legacy of childhood recklessness or a particularly risky field of work, or even if the rest of his body is marked too) and a most fascinating one on his bottom lip. She almost reaches out to feel it.

Almost.

She resolves she can't let him sleep like that, she should do something, wake him up, show him the guest room (which features the clean laundry she still needs to iron on the bed, she remembers just then). Instead she leaves the buttery, lulling comfort of her sofa and starts working the laces of his boots, trying to remove them as gently as she can not to wake him, but he groans and shifts on the seat at her tugging and when she looks up he's peeking through half open eyelids at her in the most compromising position - kneeling between his legs. Her ears burn up instantly but Marcus bats his eyelashes a couple of times, showing no recognition, then falls back to sleep.

Stifling a nervous giggle and biting her lip she aligns his boots at the end of the sofa, covers him with the blanket, then turns the lights off and leaves him softly snoring in the dark.

* * *

 _AN2: hey, you get to meet 12 year old Clarke next week!_


	7. After you kissed me

**Things you said after you kissed me**

He wakes up, sprawled gracelessly on a foreign sofa, to the smell of coffee. He vaguely remembers Abby talking on the phone in the other room while he was contemplating the dying potted plants on her windowsill.

And nothing else.

He's grateful to be alone in the living-room, furiously blushing for falling asleep on the couch and dreaming of her, kneeling at his feet, tugging at his pants...

In the early light of the morning he finds her interior design choices match her fashion sense, although the house looks lived-in and cozy (so he thinks maybe he was hallucinating the dead plants too).

He follows faint scraping sounds till he finds Abby rearranging her daughter's shoes in the rack under the stairs. Gone are the dress and the make-up, her curls are gathered in a loose braid falling on her shoulder. He doubts she got much sleep done, yet she looks lovely.

"Hi," she greets him with a shy smile "I'm making coffee."

He beams back at her stupidly and excuses himself to wash up in the bathroom - where she already arranged clean towels for him - and he wastes way too much time realigning the small bottles on the bathtub edge he knocked out clumsily. When he takes a first look in the mirror his hair is a mess of tangles so he finger combs them back and hopes for the best. He can't do anything for the stubble and for the first time in years he considers letting it grow into a full beard.

When he steps out she calls from the other room asking about breakfast and a few minutes later she moves around the kitchen in grey yoga pants and a printed t-shirt (setting up pans and bowls for eggs and bacon) and Marcus can't help feeling blessed. He sits at her table with a mug of hot black coffee and somehow it doesn't feel _foreign_ at all - he's dumbstruck, though.

She sits opposite him and starts buttering toasts.

Occasionally she sips from her own mug of coffee and checks the skeleton of a clock hanging above the door to the hall.

Clarke is due to arrive soon, he thinks, he doesn't know exactly when - maybe Abby told him before he fell asleep on her like a tool and he's forgotten - so, mortified, he doesn't ask. He just thinks about the gentle shape of her bare foot swaying under the table and occasionally brushing his jeans.

"Did you sleep a bit?" he asks instead.

"A bit," she replies squinting at him in the clear morning light above the rim of her mug. Everything about her bursts with the tension of impending happiness, the glint in her eyes, the corner of her lips, the delicate curve of her neck, the grip on the mug... Marcus can't quite reconcile the feral bundle of nerves snapping back at him on the side of a desert road with the fair creature now sitting in front of him, but he's sure the all teeth and nails Abby Griffin is still there, temporarily lulled.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he's telling himself to stop staring but he's thoroughly dismissing it as interference.

He is not used to rich breakfasts, he never finds the time for more than coffee and jam on toast since Vera Kane passed away, but when Abby asked how he liked eggs he had to answer - something - and he must admit he's hungry. Maybe she's a great cook, maybe not, but he has to refrain himself from devouring eggs and bacon and buttered toasts and the whole bread slices she's spreading with cherry jam.

The doorbell surprises them both - she with jam smeared hands and he with a mouth full of toast he has to gulp down with coffee. Nevertheless Abby bolts out of her chair with a triumphant grin, throwing the door wide open to greet her child, and he follows, a few steps behind.

"Clarke!" Her voice catches but her smile never falters.

Clarke Griffin turns out to be a mini Abby with long golden hair curling in the breeze, a blue striped summer shirt and white shorts, wrapped in her mother's embrace, and frowning.

Marcus watches the girl's reluctant arms slipping around her mother's shoulders, hugging her back, then trying to pull away as Abby starts peppering her cheeks and nose and forehead with kisses.

"Mom, please, this is so embarrassing!" protests the teenager eyeing her accompanying friend and his father just down the few steps to the front door.

Abby laughs, kneeled on the floor and looking up at her daughter with glistening eyes, she keeps combing her hair back and whispering _I'm so sorry, it won't happen again_ over and over, and he knows to her, in that moment, no one else is there but Clarke. It almost feels wrong to stand there lurking so he purposefully checks the tip of his boots first, then retrieve his leather jacket from the coat hanger near the door and dips his hand in the pocket of his jeans to feel the shape of his car keys.

"It's ok, Mom, I'm almost thirteen. I can take care of myself," Clarke grumbles with a roll of her eyes that makes her mother bite her lip and squeeze her tighter.

When finally Clarke succeeds disentangling herself from Abby's arms it's because Thelonious Jaha and his son step up to the door and Abby exchanges a few heartfelt thanks with them. Clarke then stares at him, the stranger in her house, with big blue eyes and the same scowl as her mother. Adorable.

He tries a friendly smile at her but the girl narrows her gaze with a pout that endears. He thinks in a few years that beauty mark on her upper lip will make everyone fall at her feet.

"Thelonious, this is Sheriff Kane, my saviour," introduces Abby, then turns to him. "Doctor Thelonious Jaha, Head of Neurosurgery at Ark Medical Center, and inestimable neighbor."

Marcus detaches himself from Clarke's uncomfortable scrutiny to shake hands with a tall African-American man wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt - feeling inadequate for reasons that elude him at the moment.

His son is suspiciously well mannered to be Clarke's age and gazes at his badge and sidearm with undisguised apprehension.

"Thank you for driving our Abby safely home," intervenes Jaha Senior.

 _My duty_ comes out too smoothly to be a truthful answer, Abby ducks her head pursing her lips to conceal a smile and rushes everyone inside with the promise of breakfast - and a detailed tale of her adventures.

Marcus lingers on the threshold, ready to leave, seizing the opportunity to say his goodbyes, and thanks. Abby looks deceived (probably out of politeness), insists he rests a bit longer but Jaha is quite too eager to point out: "The sooner the Sheriff leaves the sooner he'll arrive back home, Abby, we kept him already too long."

He's right, of course, the sooner he drives off the sooner he can crash in his own bed and sleep for a month - and dream of her again. But she touches his arm and asks him to wait just a little longer while she digs for her wallet in her bag.

Marcus is taken aback, raises his hands, scratches his nape, failing to look casual. "I don't think it's necessary, really."

"Well, Raven will, and the rental car is still at the garage," she comments, then adds regretfully: "I don't have enough cash on me but this is my number, let me know what is due, please," she requests handing him a card.

"But your phone is broken."

Everyone turns to Wells, whose father would very much strangle at the moment, and Abby sends Clarke looking for pen and paper.

"Are you sure you can drive home on so little sleep?" she asks Marcus while he writes down his own number on a scrap of stationery with the hospital's letterhead.

He nods, dismissing her concern: "It's ok, your friend is right, the sooner I leave..." and he trails off with a hand gesture. Thelonious Jaha is looming at the front door, checking on the kids already stuffing their belly in the kitchen and keeping an eye on them at the same time - and Marcus knows Abby is completely oblivious of the Head of Neurosurgery being in love with her when she thanks him ( _for everything_ as ambiguous as it might sound to Jaha listening in), waves goodbye, then swiftly stops him, running bare feet in the middle of the street before he can get into his car, cups his stubbly cheek, awkwardly raises on tiptoes and presses soft lips to the corner of his mouth.

"May we meet again," she wishes for his ears only.

Marcus tries not to make a fool of himself and only grins back a lopsided smile.

When he drives off and turns the radio on George Harrison sings for him _Got My Mind Set On You_.

* * *

 _AN: just when you thought 'road trip' was over..._


	8. Over the phone

_AN: I told you it wasn't over..._

* * *

 **Things you said over the phone**

Two hours later Abby waves at Jaha and the kids on their way to the mall - with the promise to take some deserved sleep time while they are away - then closes the door, grabs the cordless on her way upstairs and dives under her bed covers with a contented sigh.

Everything is back to normal, she thinks, everything is right again.

She listens for a few minutes to the sounds of the city outside and closes her eyes but sleep doesn't come. She is ready to crash yet she's wide awake, rolling in bed, humming a tune in her head she can't put her finger on. It drives her crazy.

She sits up with a snort and dials his number.

"You still awake?" she asks (rhetorically) as greeting when he picks up.

Marcus laughs on the other end of the line and it reaches her ear with a faint echo, she can hear the sound of the road in the background and she knows she's on speaker. "I'm still awake," he confirms "Why are _you_ still awake?"

"Can't sleep."

"How so?"

There's a kind concern in his voice and it's both maddening and charming, she wonders if it's part of his Sheriff persona or if it's completely coincidental. "I don't know," she confesses picking at loose threads in her blanket "I was afraid you'd fallen asleep driving and..."

He chuckles again, reassures her again, asks her about Clarke.

She smiles in the receiver because Clarke is her favorite topic and he's distracting her and it infuriates her this man already knows how to pull her strings. She asks the questions instead, to make sure he's not about to doze off and die in a ditch.

"Don't worry too much about the rental, Raven could probably find a way to make it look like it was an accident."

"It _was_ an accident!" she argues. But she is met with a chortle on the other side and is secretly happy he can't see her reddening cheeks. "Are we endorsing fraud now, Sheriff?" she retorts amused.

"I only said she _could._ "

She falls back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling as he talks and she nods and hums at the right moments and it feels comforting, in a way, to hear his voice in the receiver. She doesn't even realize she's closed her eyes till he calls her name.

"Abby? You still there?"

"Yeah, I was listening," she lies sitting upright again. Her voice (groggy with sleep) betrays her though. _Damn_. It must have been just a few minutes, such a short time in which her conscience wandered off and took her on a ride in a vintage car, listening to old songs carried by the wind. But it was just a dream. If she really thinks about it she's not even sure of what happened last night.

"Hold on, I think my battery is dying, we've been talking for... over an hour."

She checks the side table clock with raised eyebrows and hums. Still, something bothers her and she's wary of hanging up till she figures it out. "Don't you have a charger?"

"I... do, actually," he answers reluctantly.

And she knows what he's about to say, that she should sleep, that he'll be fine and other truths of sorts. "Then plug it, I'm not going to sleep till you're safely home," she announces before he can voice any of those.

She hears him sigh (loudly on purpose) and smiles triumphantly, squeezing her eyes and wrinkling her nose because she knows - and he knows too by now - she's too stubborn to desist.

She listens, holding her breath as he struggles with the cable in the glovebox and wishes he'd pull over instead but he manages - somehow - and they keep talking, about everything and nothing, to fill time, make it fly.

She only hangs up when he stops to refill and get some lunch.

She wanders downstairs then, finds the pile of dirty plates left from breakfast and takes care of it absentmindedly, waiting for the phone to ring, still humming that unnamed song in her head.

Marcus hinted at informing the local department to keep an eye on the activities in that service station instead of reporting the incident. And she realizes now, washing dishes and occasionally looking out the window, that if he reported it then a file would be opened and she would have to be questioned too. She lets water run from the tap as she rinses the mugs and hums sweetly, lyrics coming to mind here and there (yet not the full song).

She hums and she feels lucky and wonders if it's the kind of serenity that comes with a sleep deprived brain or if she is really relaxed. Thinking back at the last few years she can't say she had much of that, but meeting Marcus in the middle of the desert was... at least not the dickest move fate threw at her.

 _Already a first name basis?_ Thelonious' voice enquired earlier - when she called after him, ran bare feet to the sidewalk and kissed him (as chaste as it was), a stranger from Arizona.

Why did she have to blush? Why did she have to give Jaha any explanation, anyway...

She contemplates making a salad but is too tired to be hungry so opts for greek yogurt and acacia honey. She checks on her potted plants then - and cringes at the many losses in the battlefield (she never had a green thumb) mentally counting how much would it cost to replace them with new, living ones again.

Then the phone rings and she answers with a widening smile, stretches on the sofa, listens to Marcus' quiet, reassuring voice as he makes his way back home. She complains about the suicidal plants and he snickers at her gardening failures, but shares a few of his mother's tips to manage a flower shop in the desert, talks about the shelter kids and _the 100_ project to keep them off the streets - and she realizes he doesn't ever mention other aspects of his job.

"When do you have to be back at work?" she asks.

"I traded shifts with Byrne so... tomorrow morning. You? Please tell me you don't have to be at the hospital tonight?"

She giggles with mirth. "No, I have Sunday night shift. A whole day to rest ahead."

"Good."

"Good," she repeats with more confidence than she feels.

They finally say their goodbyes as he turns the keys in his front door and it sounds... disconcerting, almost wrong to sever that connection.

"I'll save this number then," he half asks, half states.

"Please do," she agrees and winces for how breathy it comes out.

Clarke finds her asleep on the sofa, the phone still in her hand after she hung up.

They watch _Hawaii Five-O_ together before dinner and everything is back to normal.

She brushes Clarke's golden hair before bed and hugs her tight, pressing a kiss to her temple as she struggles, laughing, to break free. Nothing changed, nothing is altered (they have a newfound routine since Jake died, just the two of them). She reads a few pages of her night time book till, frustrated, she realizes she's not really paying attention to the words, she puts it down on the nightstand, turns off the light and stares at the dancing shadows on the ceiling.

Everything is back to normal and it doesn't feel right.

* * *

 _AN2: *Effie Trinket's voice* welcome, welcome, to the second part of the trip_


	9. At 1AM

_AN: 'nights were mainly made to say things you wouldn't say'... or something like that_

* * *

 **Things you said at 1AM**

"Hi."

To his credit, he had a very long day and is only half awake when he picks up the phone after the fourth ring thinking it's a work emergency. But it takes him a minute to place the low (and sensual) pitched voice that goes straight to his groin, eliciting a multitude of fantasies his sleepy brain is slow to suppress.

"Abby?"

He groans, rubs one eye and shifts on the bed to get a glimpse of the red glowing numbers on his alarm clock. A few minutes past one in the morning. Thursday.

Her sweet giggles come through the line undisturbed. "I got a new phone," she says cheerfully "and the fifth number I entered in my now very empty list is yours."

Marcus can't help the smile that spreads halfway through a yawn and answers with croaky thanks. He can tell she's outside from the distant noises of a sleeping city behind her footsteps on concrete.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No," he lies.

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she apologises again and he's almost certain there is a fondness she tries to hide too.

"I am- Well, I needed to dial someone and I thought of you," she confesses, her breath catching.

He's suddenly wide awake, throwing back the covers, sitting up in bed.

"Are you ok?"

"Yes," she's quick to reassure him "I'm probably just being silly." It sounds like something she said more to herself than to his benefit and it does nothing to even his furrowed brow. "I'm walking home alone and it's so... quiet," she finally adds "I get spooked by the smallest of sounds."

He sits back propped against the headboard and pictures her making her way home from the clinic through dark empty alleys, her hair in a tidy braid swinging on her back with every step, a trenchcoat over a low cut sweater and jeans, her grip on the bag, maybe checking her surroundings at a crossroad, holding her new phone to her ear.

"And you'd feel more secure talking to a sheriff." It isn't a question but she chuckles at his assumption.

"Just needed a friendly voice. Crooks are less likely to engage people on the phone, right?"

"Actually, they might think you're distracted by the conversation and follow you around till you hang up," he informs her. There's a pause on the other end in which he imagines her lips curving in the endearing shape of an _oh!_ but he's quick to add: "So don't. Talk to me till you're safely locked behind your front door."

"Ok," she agrees snorting softly "It's just a few more blocks away."

"How's Clarke? Don't tell me she's home alone waiting for you," he chides mockingly.

"No," she giggles again "I called to tell I'd be late and she's with the neighbors."

Meaning Jaha - he doesn't know exactly why this annoys him (nor he should investigate this feeling).

"Besides, I got her a phone as well," she chirps "we have a family plan now."

Marcus has to chuckle at her childish glee, not sure this Abby matches the image he has of her - which might be very well wrong since he only met her four days ago.

"How was your day?" he prompts again "Pretty busy if you're only now stepping out."

She pauses on the other end of the line and he senses it is somehow something she'd rather not think about.

"I had a lot of paperwork to fill," she explains with a loud sigh at last "I don't usually walk home this late but it seemed such a waste to call a cab for a few blocks..."

"Do you still have the stun gun with you?"

"Yes." He hears muffled ruffling and figures she's reaching into her bag to get it handy just in case "But, Marcus, after that night at the gas station I'm not sure I could ever use it effectively." She sounds mortified and he waits for her to elaborate: "If you hadn't been there... I don't think I'd have gotten out of it."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Abby," he shakes his head in the darkness of his bedroom even if she can't see him. "And I'm right here with you," he adds half mockingly, unable to keep a straight face.

She laughs at that and it puts a flirtatious spin to her tone. "Ok, Sheriff, I'm almost home."

He suppresses another yawn and shifts on the bed to get off and to the bathroom but misses his right slipper and ends up stabbing his foot with the nightstand wooden leg, cursing under his breath (and ruining the moment).

"Marcus?"

"Sorry, it's nothing, I just..." he mumbles before he can stop himself and gropes around for the light switch.

He puts her on speaker while he massages his foot and she asks about Raven.

 _Raven_...

"She's... not so good," he admits after careful deliberation, taking the phone to the bathroom "But it's a positive thing for you, when she's upset she dives head first into any new project she can find and it happens to be your rental these days."

He doesn't think she needs to know about the details of the girl surprising her boyfriend in Phoenix during the weekend in more intimate settings than academically appropriate for a professor and her student. He doesn't fool himself for a minute thinking he didn't sound bitter about it - even through the line - but plays pretends.

She picks up on it nevertheless: "Well, I'm so sorry, poor Raven," she comments sounding genuinely concerned.

He stands in front of the mirror, fills a glass with tap water and takes a sip contemplating his complexion under the light bulb, flinching at the dark circles under his eyes. "The risks of long distance relationships," he concedes to his own reflection.

"Are you talking from experience?" she questions disbelieving.

He smiles to himself and is grateful she can't see him - bed hair, propped on the sink, staring in the mirror wearing black boxer briefs (and slippers) only. "Yeah," he finally admits (eleven years of it!) "I still thought they'd last longer than merely six months."

"Poor Raven," she whispers again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to tamper the mood," he chides himself hanging his head.

"No, don't worry, I'm just... I'm home," she hurries to answer. He hears dangling keys and the noise of her steps changing tune when she hits the cobblestone of her driveway and he has a sudden surge of panic that this is the last time he'll hear her voluptuous voice - and it's over the line in his bathroom staring at himself in the mirror. He grabs his phone, takes her off speakers, and presses it to his ear instead.

"Abby?"

"I'm here," she answers throatily, so soft he dares to think she's afraid too.

"Can I save this number?"

He can't see her biting her lip, forehead pressed to the closed door, can't see her cheeky grin, but hears the rustling of clothes and an intake of breath in the receiver when she answers: "Only if you're gonna use it."


	10. That I wasn't meant to hear

_AN: don't tell anyone, but I had so much fun with this part!_

* * *

 **Things you said that I wasn't meant to hear**

Her voice carries before the image comes up so he catches the coda of what is probably addressed to Clarke, dragging her feet somewhere around the house.

"Hi, sorry, we're still a little behind," she says when she appears on his screen with an apologetic smile.

"No worries, I can call back later," he suggests. Straining his neck to catch a glimpse of the clock behind his back he confirms he's the one at fault for calling earlier than planned - cringing because he didn't intend to seem (too) eager, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been rearranging the potted plants in the sunroom just to waste time.

Their daily calls are almost never programmed but after the first few weeks of random texts and late night conversations they fell into a routine of sorts, following mostly the pattern of Abby's shifts at the hospital. Sometimes she calls him in the morning as she drives back home and he fixes himself some breakfast; most often they chat before dinner and Marcus is yet to admit to himself those moments have become the highlight of his days - as Raven likes to tease him about.

Abby checks the clock as well, informs Clarke and rolls her eyes at the stampede-like sound of her daughter running down the stairs. She exchanges the phone for hairpins and rubber bands so the girl holds it as her mother works her hair into a complicated braid.

"Hi Sheriff," Clarke greets him, wincing from time to time when Abby pulls on a sensitive strand.

"Hi Clarke," he answers hiding from camera view the beer bottle he was sipping from. They smile at each other and to distract her he asks about the movie.

Wells (or rather his father) found two tickets for the latest Disney-Pixar premiere at El Capitan Theater and promptly invited her out. Marcus suspects Jaha Senior is not the only member of the household fallen captive of the Griffin women's charm, but to mention anything about it to Abby could potentially lift the lid of a can of worms she's not even ready to acknowledge - her now thirteen years old daughter going to date soon - with _catastrophic consequences_ (from Clarke's point of view).

As soon as her mother ties her braid she jumps out of her seat and runs off again.

"So," starts Abby taking her place at the table much more relaxed, "how was Harper's first day?"

"It could have been better," he admits. Harper is one of the convicted juveniles in the County Jail rehab project they renamed _the 100_ and is working as an intern at the office. "We had a call for an eviction and she didn't flip them off," he explains only partly joking "so it wasn't a complete fu-"

"Clarke is here!" Abby yells cutting him short.

"F-Failure?" he finishes lamely furrowing his brow and they both chuckle at the clumsy save.

Clarke rolls her eyes at the phone camera as she passes behind her mother's back clipping her earring. "Like I've never heard the F-word, Mom!" she informs them.

Abby is about to retort - something - when the doorbell rings and she looks up at her daughter. "Clarke get a scarf, I'll get the door," she commands instead.

Marcus, who can only see Abby's expression change, guesses the teenager is not keen on scarves, but her mother is giving her _the look_ (the one all mothers master within the first year) and sure enough he hears her stomping her feet back upstairs shortly after. He smirks, entertained.

"Sorry, I'll get the door and be right back," she says then beaming at him satisfied. The doorbell rings again and she fumbles with the screen then rushes to open the door, phone still in hand.

From what he can see - upside down and sideways - Jaha wears Berluti shoes and a grey suit that, to him, looks a bit too elegant for the task of driving teens to the theater. But he doesn't know Thelonious Jaha except from what he gathered from Abby's tales, and for some reason she doesn't talk about him much (despite him being very present in her and her daughter's lives). On this he found out quite early that Abby is very reserved. Maybe this means she doesn't talk about him either; or maybe - he wishes - she doesn't have anything to talk about Jaha. Jackson (her intern) comes out often enough in her tales that he knows how he likes his coffee. Either way, months after he shook his hand, Marcus can't quite pinpoint the man and what rubs him the wrong way about him.

Thinking she's muted her mic, Marcus raises his brow when they exchange pleasantries on the threshold and he can still hear them.

He reminds himself he should probably mute his audio and give them privacy but he's a curious monkey and Jaha is touching her sleeve onscreen so he keeps listening (it's her honest mistake anyway, he tells himself) because he just knows what's coming and can't stifle the frenzy that it elicits.

"I thought we could check out that restaurant they opened last month on Boulevard while the kids are at the movies," Jaha says, hands tucked in his pockets like some smooth dandy.

Abby straightens up, he sees her taking a hand to her face, probably to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear like she does when she's hesitating. "Oh, Thelonious, I... already made plans for tonight," she says mortified.

He's quite sorry he can't see the other man's expression but his hands stay in his pockets and he starts swaying on the spot as he asks slightly incredulous: "You have a date?"

He can't help holding his breath for her answer - perched on his seat, perfectly still.

"Sort of," she says softly, a tinge of fondness in her voice that makes his knees go weak. He tries not to dwell on that feeling, fearing he might have to acknowledge the stiffness in his shoulders whenever Jaha is around has a name (an irrational one).

Thelonious probably nods or looks at his feet, his hand comes out to smooth the front of his pristine jacket. "I didn't even know you were seeing someone."

"It's fairly recent," admits Abby, and he thinks it's exactly twelve days since she asked Clarke how to use FaceTime - and he purses his lips and grins to himself remembering her surprise when she first saw him again, beard and spectacles and old Diamondbacks' hoodie - so very far from the clean shapes and ironed suits of Doctor Jaha. She kept squinting at the screen and giggling, shaking her head at him and he thought she looked beautiful when her eyes crinkled in laughters. But Abby is the kind of woman that makes you question your entire set of priorities and makes you foolishly wish to be the source of such happiness (so he can't really blame _anyone_ for trying).

Clarke - Abby's only indisputable cause of every and all happiness and heartache - squeezes between the two adults on her way out and her mother stops her, bending for a kiss, so he gets a glimpse of Wells waiting down the steps with a smug grin and a black SUV parked behind Abby's Ford Focus in her driveway.

"When would it be best to take Clarke back?" asks Jaha.

"Oh, I'll be home," says Abby reassuringly. Marcus grimaces three-hundred and sixty-four miles away, thinking about what kind of conjectures the other man's brain is concocting at the moment, but Abby is waving at them and closing her front door and is making her way back to the kitchen so he straightens up and pretends he didn't eavesdrop.

The phone spins and he gets a generous view of her decolleté when she retrieves a stand from the sofa and tries to set it on the kitchen table, her golden necklace now hosting two rings swaying in front of the camera when she bends at the waist.

She messes with the screen and smiles, and he knows she succeeded unmuting the sound. "Hey, sorry, I'm back."

He can't keep the straight face for long and breaks into a shiteating grin. "So... it's a date," he inquires sheepishly.

He witnesses her turn from surprised to confused and then gain a bit of color in her cheeks as she gasps: "How... Did you hear that?"

"You muted your audio not your mic," he explains laughing "I'm sorry," he adds quickly, but she's giggling too so she can't be _that_ mad.

She isn't, in fact, she's mostly embarrassed and she hangs her head muttering about having her teenage daughter teaching her how to do that as a curtain of curls hides her from the camera. "Oh, Marcus, you know Clarke is in for a ride-long questioning session now, for that," he hears her say regretfully.

"Does it sound so bad we set a time to eat together?"

She shakes her head with her eyes closed biting her lip - in the motion the light catches the pin in her hair and he recognizes it as one of Clarke's. She's free of make-up and dressed down but her skin's aglow and the black top and jeans she's wearing are flattering her curves nonetheless - and tickling his fantasy probably more than if she were wrapped in a fancy dress. She's comfortable. He mentally slaps himself before he dares concluding this familiarity means something - anything. She is in her own home after all.

"All right, so what are you having tonight?" he asks preventing his mind to wander off.

She smiles at the screen getting up and about in the kitchen. "I'll have chicken breasts with curry and roast potatoes, I think... You?"

"Meatballs with tomato sauce and rosemary."

"Yummy," she comments over her shoulder as she stretches to retrieve a pan from the cupboard, her shirt riding up a bit.

He chuckles and gets up to business with a devious grin: "I'll tell you all about it."

She laughs and they keep talking and bantering while cooking, in their respective kitchens, in their respective States, but when they sit down to eat in front of the other, even if it's through a screen, he can't help mentally marking the day because it does feel like a date - only miles away.

* * *

 _AN2: I do love the beard! I also love the stubble, but Ian... and beard... and I'm gone so far down in the gutter, oh Lord! (ignore me)  
_


	11. Too quietly

**Things you said too quietly**

She leaves the Blakes' apartment at sundown and drives home hastily and in a hurry but has to stop halfway because she can't see the road through tears. Pulling into the parking lot of a supermarket she just takes a few minutes to even her heartbeat and dry her eyes, forehead resting on the wheel, her urgency to be home and hug her daughter balanced by the dread of scaring Clarke if she sees her so distressed.

Even when they buried Jake she made herself not cry in front of Clarke. Sometimes she thinks if she did maybe her daughter wouldn't resent her so much (but to crack that wall would mean to crumble and she simply cannot afford it).

She blindly gropes inside her bag to find her phone, then props it against the dashboard and the windshield in front of her and waits for Marcus to pick up the call.

"Hey," he rasps from a dark room in Arizona - and it sounds so foreign she breathes in sharply.

"Hi, you were sleeping?"

It's barely seven and he's usually getting ready for dinner at that time.

"I... it was supposed to be a nap but it got away from me," he smiles sleepily, rubbing at glossy feverish eyes, looking so much younger (and cute, terribly cute).

She is not impressed, though, not at all. Her tongue sweeps her front teeth and her brow furrows.

"You didn't go see a doctor, did you?" She didn't mean to sound that angry but at least it catches his attention.

"It's just a cold, I thought I'd try and sleep it off," he mumbles, but halfway through he loses all purpose, perhaps because he's awake enough now to see she's dead serious and on the verge of tears again - for how much it pains her to admit it. "I'll go in the morning," he whispers at last.

She sniffs and leans on the wheel (feeling foolish and irrationally, unapologetically apprehensive) and he finally asks her why she's in the car, parked outside, and even if she can't explain it herself she tries: "I had a bad day."

"Anything I can improve?"

Abby snorts softly and smiles at him because he already does even if she cannot bring herself to say it out loud, yet - but she hopes he knows. She gently shakes her head and he prods further: "Wanna talk about it?"

She blinks trying to find the words. "I have a patient, Aurora Blake," she starts.

"Clarke's babysitter?"

She nods and continues: "She has a heart condition, that's how I first met her, through the clinic. She missed her appointment today so I drove by on my way home to check on things. And I'm afraid she's not getting any better. She stopped taking her medications because... because they cannot afford it," she explains simply "And now I'm afraid we're past the time for meds and she needs surgery, but they can't afford that either."

Marcus shifts on the sofa and sits up, ruffling his hair even further in an attempt at combing it back - and she notices for the first time how long it is now and restrains herself from reaching out to the screen and be disappointed.

"You don't do pro bono at the clinic?" he asks.

"The clinic _is_ pro bono, but we don't have the equipment for surgery, it's just diagnostic and check ups."

"And no one at Ark Medical would do it I presume?"

Abby shakes her head looking helplessly at her hands in her lap. "I doubt very much Dante Wallace and his board of city slickers even knows what _pro bono_ means." _Including Thelonious_ , she thinks bitterly "They have no insurance but she's young, younger than me, Marcus, and she has two kids, Octavia is almost Clarke's age and Bellamy is barely sixteen…"

"Abby, you can't save everyone," he interrupts her gently, and he's right - the realist - she looks into his dark wistful eyes and wonders if he knows this is all about Jake. Jake she couldn't save. She bites the inside of her cheek and tastes iron.

 _Hope is everything_ , she reminds herself. "I can try."

Apparently it's what he expected to hear because a fond smile slowly lights his figure and she can't resist smiling back coily. Which brings some hesitation to her next words: "By the way, there is another conference in three weeks where I can gather some contacts," she says avoiding looking directly at the phone "In Vegas," she adds.

"You guys live the life," he comments mockingly.

She giggles rolling her eyes. "It's mostly a four days tedious explanation of case studies on Ebstein's Anomaly, but I thought... I could stay a little longer, come back home on Sunday maybe…" she trails off, sniffing and hoping her face isn't too blotchy with previous tears (and her voice isn't too needy, and she didn't come off too obvious).

He just nods, wets his lips, looks at his feet. He knows what it means, of course.

 _Damn this man_ , she thinks, damn him and his polite caution.

"So, are you busy that weekend?" she asks faking nonchalance (completely). Her breath catches and her eyes sting and she feels like a stupid teen with a crush - and maybe she is - because her ears are burning and she wishes she could flee but can't stop staring at the shape of his mouth and the scar she's been longing to kiss since... Waiting for his reply is a clichéd, slow, sadistic death during which she doubts every hint and every smirk that made her insides melt in the past months.

"I don't think so," he finally answers scratching at his nape (with a nervousness he _dares_ to flaunt).

"We could have dinner on Friday," she suggests - breathless and hopeful and cringing because of it.

He nods again: "I can drive by and pick you up."

It's an hour and a half ride to Las Vegas for him and she knows it - and he knows it too - but that he's casually willing to do it in the first place (and she's eager to wait way past her dinner time for him) makes her heart skip a beat. What fools they are.

They both chuckle softly at the other through the screen and she's afraid she's so full of love it will spill and show despite herself. So she just mouths _ok_ and he says it back, quietly, like it doesn't change a thing.

* * *

 _AN: see you tomorrow... in Vegas_


	12. When we were the happiest we ever were

_AN: guess what?! This is where things earn the M rating, so if you're not into that you can stop after the elevator u,u_

 _ _And you know what they say, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...__

* * *

 **Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were**

In retrospect, she shouldn't have wasted all that time picking a dress to pack for the evening, because now she's reconsidering all of her discarded options and anything - anything! Even the black one - would have been better than the burgundy sheath dress she's wearing. It suits her figure, the hem rides tantalizingly mid-thigh when she walks, but it's not _flashy_ enough for Las Vegas nights.

Abby looks around the hotel lobby, over a group of scantily dressed dancers' feathers, past the businessmen and the frat boys on vacation following them, across the room, to the revolving door at the entrance, where he stands, phone still in hand from when a few seconds earlier he informed her he'd arrived.

She tucks her own phone in her purse and tries to contain her excitement but her smile wobbles when he sees her and she has to summon all her strength to maintain a somewhat dignified composure (and not run to him like in a cheesy movie).

Instead they meet halfway to the door and sort of collide, both laughing, his arms coming around her in a loose embrace as if she's made to fit in his space, and her hands raising to cup his jaw, delicately petting his tidy beard - like she's fantasized about since their first FaceTime three months ago. After so long, they're probably starved to feel hot skin and solid bodies under their fingertips instead of a five inches screen image.

Marcus ducks in her hands, suddenly shy. "I can shave if you don't like it."

"Don't you dare!" Abby snorts, shifting her grip to his neck and feeling his arms tightening around her by reflex "You look more... dangerous?" she offers, brushing her thumb across the small scar on his bottom lip, exploring.

It's probably not the look he was going for, she thinks maybe she went beyond his expectations because his eyebrows raise and that smug grin of his is back and all she wants is to kiss it away.

"Is it a good thing?"

"Very," she whispers against his lips.

It's a soft kiss, so unexpected that surprises them both smiling and giggling in the middle of it. She plunges her fingers in the too long hair at his nape and he kisses her properly then. She doesn't really know how they fell so naturally in step over phone calls, but it doesn't feel awkward to kiss Marcus Kane, it's like continuing a conversation they started six months ago. On the plus side he smells very, _very_ good - which is something she can't enjoy over the line. She almost forgets all about that second-guessing plaguing her previous weeks. Almost.

Eventually she lightly nips at his lip and they break into giggles so he takes her hand with a last peck and guides her out - while she curses internally for feeling like a schoolgirl at the prom instead of the grown confident woman who did ask him out and did just command a kiss.

"So where are you taking me tonight?" she asks as they reach his Mustang.

"I'm... not sure," he replies, cryptic.

"Oh dear... you asked Jasper's advice, didn't you?"

Marcus chuckles and nods reluctantly. "Actually, he did offer it, I didn't have a chance to ask."

"So we're going to a strip club?" she questions half heartedly glancing purposefully his way.

Jasper, one of the kids in _the 100_ project, turned eighteen two months ago and his friends gifted him with a trip to Las Vegas and an entrance to one of its adult entertainment places, where he fell head over heels for a sweet dark haired girl after which he chased all night (and several other nights after that, spending most of his money). The detail that amused them all for days is that Maya was never on the dancefloor but a waitress going from table to table to collect empty glasses - and the boy kept ordering (soft) drink after drink just to see her take them away.

"No!" he reassures her "No, I checked it on TripAdvisor, it looked ok."

She has the sudden urge to reach out and comb his hair, ruffled by the wind, but she's not quite sure how comfortable this - brand new - intimacy sits with him (even after the kiss). He's not shy... but guarded, cautious perhaps.

Nevertheless she remarks, piqued, how his hand is at the small of her back as they walk from the parking to the restaurant door. She looks around self-consciously as they wait - taking note of all the appealing younger women sitting at the bar or waiting the tables - but he brushes his fingers to hers when she dares peek up at him and he's looking back at her like she hung the moon (and it's terrifying and crippling her in self doubt for an entirely different set of reasons). She can't help smiling and biting her lip just to see his eyes go dark with anticipation. Oh how she loves to tease him, though!

For his youthful, lustful goggles, Jasper does have a taste for romantic places after all. Abby doubts the boy could ever take his sweetheart to an Italian steakhouse like that but he probably has Marcus' best interest at heart and that alone fills her with something akin pride for the man now sitting with her. He loves his teenage delinquents like they're his and it shows.

They share a bottle of red wine, she gets to taste his filet and he finishes her veal as they chat and laugh and her heartbeat goes on a rollercoaster. She figures it'll take a little adjusting to his very solid, very charming and within grasping distance presence. It's been too long since she dated. There never was anyone after Jake and she thought there might just never be again - it took her four years to stop wearing his ring. It might have been Marcus, it might have been time, Abby doesn't dwell on that anymore.

They share a chocolate cake slice for dessert too (but she eats most of it as he tells her about his latest transferred tech officer Wick and his crush on Raven). They even get a picture taken with her phone - and she debates whether sending it to Clarke when she texts her goodnight (but she doesn't, because his hand is on her hip and she's not even looking at the camera, glancing sideways at him, the curve of her lips giving everything away).

All things considered, they might look like a long time dating couple, with their easy conversation, inner jokes and occasional banter, but on the inside she's squirming for more, realizing while they drive back to her hotel she still can't quite seize if his restrained affection is due to the novelty of it or the unspoken status of their relationship.

 _Fuck this man_ (quite literally), she has to do all the work. So when they arrive she gets out of the car and waits for him to circle around with an outstretched hand and an unmistakable glance over her shoulder. He catches up quickly enough, smirking smugly, and she knows, in that moment, he's utterly smitten with her and she'd be falling hard again if she already weren't. When the elevator doors close she turns to him with a completely serious expression and confesses: "I want you."

Which was probably already painfully obvious but she witnesses something click in him and his eyes go dark and his lips part just as the chime goes off and other guests enter the elevator for the rest of their nine floors ride. But it can't be said Abby Griffin has no self-control (and a poker face) which is a good thing because way in the back of that elevator, huddled close to make room for others, he is copping a feel and enjoying it very much.

He pulls her into a kiss as soon as they're out of the elevator, in the corridor, and they barely make it to her room before shoes are off and she's up against a wall, holding onto his shoulders and kissing him back hungrily. She buries her hands in his hair and he buries his under her dress and she's panting against his neck and kissing him, gasping for air in mere minutes with fast building pleasure.

"Oh Marcus," she groans against his ear while he snuggles in the hollow of her throat and flicks his tongue on her soft skin "Wait - I," Anything else is swallowed by a low, irrepressible moan. _Damn the man_ , damn his skilled fingers.

She's playing catch up now.

She's light, and he's strong enough to hold her up as she recovers her senses, numbly clinging to his neck, letting him kiss her eyes and nose as the panties dangling from her knee finally slide to the floor and he slowly shuffles toward the bed, stumbling in the middle of the room. When her feet touch the ground again she divests him of the jacket as he reaches behind her for the dress' zipper and they fumble, frustrated, negotiating priorities till the zipper is lowered and the jacket meets the floor as well. Her dress follows, pooling at her feet, and they're kissing again, wet and hot and almost frantic, two pairs of hands battling his shirt buttons till he has to break contact to look down at the annoying catches.

She steps back and sits on the edge of the bed then, getting to unbuckle his belt with a spreading, devilish, grin on her face as she watches him swallow and (maybe even) blush in the neon lights coming from the city outside the window. He gets rid of his shirt as she frees him of his pants and boxer briefs in one go - he dips a hand in his pocket before letting them slide to the floor.

Abby smiles up at him, taking his hand and slipping the concealed condom from his fist - and he lets her, because his fingers are flexing, aching to touch her and he's having trouble breathing - and she loves him so much right now. She helps him put it on, playfully nuzzling him, teasing and licking at his side as it rolls on and he combs her hair back, squeezing his eyes shut.

Like with all new lovers, their synergy can't be completely perfect at first, so she's a bit disappointed but not surprised when he curses under his breath, _God Abby_ , pries her hands away gently and flips her flat on her back - not as gently, and she laughs bewildered at his sudden vehemence - crawls on top of her on the bed and kisses her stupid.

The stark contrast of his soft lips and bristly beard keeps her on the verge of bliss when he enters her and not long after, her bra joins the rest of their clothes - on the floor... somewhere.

"It tickles," she informs him breathless in between kissing his shoulder and his neck - she's gonna have a rash but at the moment she just wants more.

He chuckles around her earlobe and she takes the distraction to roll them over and be on top. She giggles merrily, sitting up, his fascinating facial hair at arm's length, and he groans when she sinks down again, his hands coming to brace her hips.

"You'll be the death of me," he sighs.

She grins back, watching him through half-closed eyelids, holding his gaze, trying to match his rhythm. He doesn't complain, he gets to enjoy the full vision of her while she explores his body, trailing fingers through the light soft curls on his chest, counting his scars, feeling them under her fingertips - he has many more on his front, one on his right thigh and arm - and she wants to kiss them all (love them all) but he soon can't take it anymore and he sits up too, holding her close, burying his face in her breasts.

She didn't expect him to be so... _proactive_ in bed but she likes it - very much - he's playful and eager, he drives her crazy with his tongue and, all coherent thoughts gone, she arches her back and claws at his shoulders helplessly.

She vaguely registers his voice but he's whispering her name over and over and she can only answer by kissing his brow and his nose and gasping for air, skin against hot skin. She's so close, they both are, they've been toying around it for so long and fantasising about it that the real thing is almost overwhelming.

"God, Abby," he pleads again before hooking his hands behind her thighs and flip her over on her back again with a boyish grin. He falls on her, eagerly trailing scratching kisses along her throat as he tickles her sides and she squirms, laughing, underneath. Then he fills her again and she wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him square on the mouth - he still tastes a bit like chocolate and wine. She's on the edge again but wishes that frenzy to never end.

"I'm sorry," he whispers seriously, but she doesn't understand or maybe can't; she kisses his last sentence away as he repeats: "I'm sorry, I can't-"

He slips a hand between them and she sees stars behind her eyelids, blissfully falling on the other side with just a few strokes and a sharp intake of breath, raking his back and curling her toes. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers him following her over the edge within seconds. She's abashed she might have cried out but her ears went deaf with the rush of blood and they both go limp, panting breathless, till he's recovered enough to shift his weight off of her and on his side.

"I'm so sorry," he gasps again.

She rolls on her side to face him too, brow furrowed, still not ready for any kind of conversation (even less for anything starting with an apology).

He scoots over and draws her in his arms, bumping his nose to hers before confessing guiltily: "This is not exactly how I imagined our first time."

* * *

 _AN2: let me scream for a bit (I never wrote anything 'explicit' before!) and I'll get back at you next week!_

 _AN3: I just really love the beard_


	13. When we were on top of the world

_AN: where were we? Ah right!_

* * *

 _"This is not exactly how I imagined our first time."_

 **Things you said when we were on top of the world**

She laughs at that. A joyful sweet laugh with eyes closed and head tilted back that makes her look so much younger.

Then she looks at him knowingly and teases: "So you thought about our first time... often?"

He grins back mildly embarrassed, combing her wild mane out of her face. "I wish I was twenty years younger," he says. Because he would be making love to her again, right now, if he could, because instead of rushing them through he would have taken his time exploring and driving her insane (hopefully), but he was so aroused by the time they closed the door, so ready to explode with suppressed desire he knew he couldn't last long.

She giggles burying her face in his shoulder. "I have no complaints here," she admits in a low sensual whisper against his skin, stroking his beard and patting his chest possessively.

They were both so starved for each other, the sight of her alone was enough to bring him close to the edge - and to stir unsuspectable energies deep inside at this very moment.

He growls, deep in the back of his throat, matching the mischievous glint in her eyes before kissing her again for good measure.

They end up dozing off, in the middle of lascivious, sloppy kisses, and lazy, fortuitous explorations that leave him with the feel of haze and indulgence of high school summer afternoons in the dark of the back row at the theater.

He wakes up to the first lights of the morning - because they forgot to draw the curtains - next to her bare back, her hair falling on the pillow, exposing the inviting curve of her neck.

He tries to resist the urge to kiss the spot behind her ear that made her moan the night before - or to trace a trail of open mouthed, sound kisses down her back, and slip an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, feeling her soft skin pressed against his... - instead he gets up and fumbles around the room, collecting discarded items for at least five minutes, before realizing the small overnight bag with his toothbrush and change he dropped in the trunk of his car (just in case, as he told himself) is still where he left it: in the trunk of the Mustang, ten floors down, across the hall and the parking lot.

He rolls his head back and swears in the private of his mind, looking at the overly bright ceiling with open contempt. He can't escape a _walk of shame_ (even if that was the very reason he had a change of clothes in the first place).

Hastily, he puts on pants and shirt and slips out of the room with a last glance at Abby's still - beautiful, his insides ache - sleeping form.

He makes it downstairs quickly enough and feigns nonchalance at the gaze of an elderly couple in the elevator going down for breakfast. He retrieves his bag and thinks about getting something to eat as well to bring upstairs, but he's not sure about what Abby would want - what if she planned to go out for breakfast? What if he orders room service and it goes on her bill? What if she doesn't want to eat at all?

He wastes at least 8 minutes reading the menu outside the hotel dining hall, trying to imagine what a _King Elvis Breakfast_ entails (compared to a simple _Elvis Breakfast_ ), then remembers he still has bed hair and is wearing a suit at six in the morning and even if the couple in the center right wing of the room is gulping down orange juice in a _Han Solo and Leia_ \- very accurate - cosplay combo, he still feels inadequate. He is now mildly hungry, though.

When he sweeps the badge on her room's door lock and gets in, he's still dwelling upon his basic needs and the sight of her, sitting in bed, covers pooling at her waist, arms around her knees and the face of dejection, makes him stop in his track, bringing up front an all different set of needs.

She blinks once and parts her lips and he instantly knows what she doesn't want to admit - that she thought he left, that he didn't wake her up, that she called out thinking he'd be in the bathroom but no one answered, that she just had a mild surge of anger coloring her cheeks and it's now turning to shame, judging by the crimson tips of her ears... that he's a dork, standing like a tool in the middle of the room while she sits there (gloriously naked underneath those sheets) and smothers her angst in contained relief.

But he doesn't let her voice any of it. "Lord Almighty," he just exclaims, dropping his bag to the floor and taking a few steps closer.

He fights to keep a straight face as she raises her eyebrows imperceptibly, startled at the unusual wording. "I feel my temperature rising," he continues; but at the tilt of her head and her adorable puzzled expression he just loses it and grins through the next line: "Higher, higher, it's burning through to my soul."

Her face crumples in a repressed laugh behind her hand as he hits the edge of the bed, loses his shoes and crawls on his hands and knees now singing - completely off-key - and dodging the pillow she throws at him playfully: "Girl, girl, girl, you gonna set me on fire."

"Marcus?!" she protests as he tries to take the covers off of her, but gets eager to undress him instead.

"My brain is flaming, I don't know which way to go," he mutters, scratching the sensible skin of her throat with his beard and delighting in the feel of her chuckles vibrating against his lips.

Then her kisses lift him higher, like the sweet song of a choir, and they get to light the morning sky with burning love.

It occurs to him, sometime around midday, while she rests her head on his chest and traces the jagged contours of his scars, that he had plans for the day - like going up the Stratosphere Tower, maybe have lunch at the _Top of the World_ revolving restaurant there, look out the panoramic viewpoint - but those plans involved clothes on and this is _so_ much better.

She sighs and props her head on her hand to look at him. "This is a gunshot wound." It's more a statement than a question but he nods anyway.

"Yes, it's... ugly," he says apologetically, but she shakes her head and her hair tickles him so he moves them behind her ear. He instructs himself to relax under her light touch, even if goosebump is rising and a shudder travels down his spine. She traces his skin with delicate fingertips but there is a purpose and a firmness in her wandering, like his body is a map, or a story, and she's learning to read.

"Still," Abby counters bending to place a light kiss on the scar on his shoulder, "your heartbeat races if I touch it."

Ever the cardiologist, he thinks. "That's because of you," he deadpans.

She purses her lips like the no-nonsense woman that he loves, bats her eyelashes at him coily and waits. He sighs, defeated. _We all have to answer for our sins_ , he reminds himself.

"Some punk tried to rob a supermarket," he says "we cornered him, he opened fire and things got... messy."

He doesn't tell her five people died that day, doesn't tell her he was the lucky one - because he doesn't believe it. He doesn't mention John Murphy's parents or little five year old Fox, he doesn't speak of the off-duty deputy inside the supermarket, alerting them and coming up with a plan that _could_ have spared those lives. He doesn't. He followed protocol (and ordered his men to stay back as he negotiated) and he got a bullet through his shoulder in return.

No one blamed him for what happened next, no one knew Emerson was desperate and no one knew he had explosives. And as he laid there, bleeding on the concrete, under the rain of shattered glasses and debris as the small building collapsed, he only blamed himself.

Abby rests her head back on his chest and listens to his heartbeat, brushing eyelashes on his skin like butterfly wings. She listens to the unspoken truth and once her calm has seeped through and his breathing is matching hers again she kisses him, smiling sweetly - and he thinks he probably doesn't deserve her.

 _God will forgive you Marcus, the question is: will you be able to forgive yourself?_ asked his mother once. He worked on that - is still working on it - starting _the 100_ project, getting involved in the community, making amends where he can... Seven years later he still can't believe he deserves to be happy.

 _Salvation comes at a price_.

But he looks at Abby and is selfish for the first time.

He drives her to the airport and holds her (and she holds him too, hands slipping in his back pockets, making him grin like a fool) before she has to go through security - and she tugs at his beard playfully and promises to call when she lands - yet there are no _I love you_ s nor _goodbye_ s and Marcus thinks, in a disturbing moment of lucidity, watching her disappear in the crowd, that maybe she has her own atonement to do, too.

* * *

 _AN2: I hope you could recognize it but just in case, Elvis' song is Burning Love, so google it and sing along! because since Paige confessed they used to have singing and dancing outtakes on set I just pictured this scene in my head! (sorry-not-sorry)_


	14. When you were drunk

_AN: I think most people assume drunk Abby is a happy and flirty Abby... haa!  
_

* * *

 **Things you said when you were drunk**

The phone rings - and he chokes on the last sip of beer - just when John Travolta blows Phil LaMarr's head and makes a mess of the Chevrolet interiors onscreen.

Marcus isn't expecting any call though, he knows she's at the hospital charity gala - with _Thelonious_ \- so when her flirtatious _hey stranger_ tumbles down the line he knocks the remote off the couch sitting up, alarmed.

"Abby?"

"Yeah?"

He pauses, reevaluates the situation: "You drunk?"

She giggles from four-hundred odd miles away and it goes straight to his groin.

"A little tipsy perhaps, why?" She asks with a challenge to her voice.

"I thought you were at that hospital event."

He can hear muffled voices in the background but can't guess the setting.

"I am, are you the controlling type?"

There's a shift in her mood and he doesn't really know how to take it. There's been a lot of those the past few weeks. She's been on edge, ready to snap since talk of the event came up.

"I wasn't expecting you to call tonight, that's all." He picks up the remote and mutes the movie but lets it play, lights and shadows in the corner of his vision, while he listens to her mumbling about those parties being boring as an excuse to down a few drinks. _I'm not having a good time_ , she says, _I can't face these people without a glass_ (or three, he supplies silently). He listens, and imagines her pacing in the foyer of some hotel, just outside the ballroom, a black dress hanging on her hips, swinging with her every uncertain step.

"Maybe you can sneak out, call a cab," he suggests. He gets up from the couch to retrieve another beer from the fridge but stops in front of the open door, thinking maybe one of them _should_ be - more - sober.

"Can't," she sighs on the other end. "Dr. Tsing's here," she adds as spitting venom.

"And?"

"And... I wish _you_ were here."

Because _in vino veritas_ , as they say, Marcus smiles fondly at the fridge, phone pressed to his ear - and it's his first mistake, to not answer immediately. The second is to approach the drunken confession with a non-drunk one. And thus the third mistake: "I'm sorry," he says.

There's a pause and a frustrated sigh in the receiver. "You're sorry? You don't sound _sorry_ ," she grumbles dragging the words a bit.

"Abby-"

"I miss you," she confesses. A whisper reaching his ear, and he shivers, nervous, bumping his foot lightly against the fridge door to close it. He hangs his head feeling like he's been punched in the guts.

He misses her too. And whose fault is that? Marcus knew what he was signing up for, he's been down that path before - but Callie... he grew up with Callie, he knew everything about Callie, this is different, this is new... - and Abby is not Callie.

Abby is not Callie so there's no reason things should follow the same inevitable ending, he keeps repeating himself (and he's starting to believe it). He needs the reminder because somehow he still feels like he ended up in the same pattern - that delicate balance between needs - and he's the common denominator in the equation.

There's an intake of breath in the receiver (like a sob, a single one) and he closes his eyes leaning on the kitchen doorframe, then finally breathes out.

"I miss you too."

"Too late," she hisses.

"Abby-"

"Why are you not here?" she enquires resolutely. It should sound needy, he thinks in the back of his mind, it should sound sulky and hypocritical but it doesn't. And he's not sure how to answer to that. He only tastes bile and self-loath.

Because she never asked him to go. Because he already swapped shifts with Byrne. Because _she_ should have been _here_ instead - it's been three months since their trip to Vegas and he hasn't been in Los Angeles once - because every minute of every hour they can spare together they spend locked in his house to the point Raven (and even Wick) started teasing him about it. (They call it the _cave weekends_ ).

Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta are arguing on screen about who gets to clean up gray matters and all he hears is the barking of a dog somewhere in the neighborhood and the buzz of the fridge.

It shouldn't matter.

"Because you're with Jaha," he answers instead.

The name has a tendency to come up often enough lately that it makes him uncomfortable. And it's not the ugly head of jealousy sneaking in, because he trusts her (love does that); it's the way she tenses up whenever she has to mention the man, the way she changes the subject, the hard line of her pressed lips when he asks her about work. He has a nagging sensation that she doesn't want him in her space. She shuts him out. Two weekends a month, that's what he gets. It would be petty of him to demand more than she can give so he never does. There are enough FaceTime chats and daily calls anyway. But if he's honest with himself, the whole week building up to the event night has been a dark path of regrets and doubts.

The silence on the other side tells him all he needs to know. He almost thinks she hung up on his stupid spiteful ass.

"I'm sorry, Abby," he apologizes.

But she interrupts him and somehow she sounds sober: "I have to be here. They need to see me here."

She told him before - when he petulantly and deliberately childishly whined about losing a precious weekend together - that she had no choice. That kind of obligations that are part of her work life he still isn't privy to, he supposed.

He hears her gasping for air on the other end of the line and knows, a truth he could only feel in his guts before, that there is something else. That she is terrified.

"Who?" he asks softly.

"Cage Wallace" she says with shaky breath "and his _girlfriend_ , Dr. Tsing. They're here to make sure I'm not losing it, Marcus, I don't know what Thelonious told them…" Abby whispers around the lump in her throat.

She's not making any sense in her tipsy speech pattern but a shiver runs down his spine just for the strangled tone of it. Despite every stupid disagreement, and the stubborn streak of the both of them, this one thing is now clear, at least for him: she didn't want him there, but she needed him. And he failed her spectacularly.

 _Ah, there you are_ , comes Jaha's voice in the distance. Abby clucks her tongue and mumbles a hasty goodbye in the receiver. "I'll call you later," she says faking cheerfulness before hanging up.

She never does and he ends up sleeping on the couch, holding the phone, long after the movie is over.

* * *

 _AN2: You all know what movie Marcus was watching, Y/Y? It's not important but it took me forever to find out what the model of the car was *rolleyes and thanks the Lords of Kobol for nerds on the internet*_


	15. Under the stars and in the grass

_AN: Where I thank you for still reading after they did the do :P hold my hand!  
_

* * *

 **Things you said under the stars and in the grass**

Clarke's blonde hair is more tangled than usual (testimony of her day's intense activity) but the girl is enthralled by her new supplies so she rarely complains and barely winces when Abby pulls a little harder on the brush. Her daughter is more than old enough to do it by herself, but she finds at the end of most stressful days (like today) it calms her to still keep the habit. And it also offers an albeit short window of opportunity to chit chat and relax together before bed.

Paint brushes, tempera tubes, watercolours, inkwells from the case scattered on the bed, Clarke is cataloguing her belongings and making plans as Abby cautiously questions her.

"Yeah, it was fun," she answers absentmindedly.

"I thought you and Bellamy didn't get along, he was very kind, winning the art case for you," Abby comments threading carefully.

But her daughter doesn't seem to be bothered, she just replies: "Yeah, he's annoying, but he hit more targets than I did in one round, so he got the case and I got the Nightfury plushie for Octavia, anyway. It was an exchange."

Abby purses her lips much as she did when she spotted them approaching through the crowd across the fair field, Clarke bumping a heavy-looking wooden case on her knee to move forward, Octavia dragging a black dragon plushie bigger than herself, and Bellamy following them deep in conversation with Marcus. Wells trailed just beside them, trying hard not to look like he was sulking.

"Sheriff Kane taught us how to shoot," explained Clarke at her mother's raised eyebrow, dropping down on the quilt where they'd been waiting. She wasn't sure that truth was better than her first guess - Marcus buying the kids everything they asked for to get on their good side as soon as the other adults sat down. As it turned out, he only paid for the bumper cars ride (because he went with them) and an unreasonable amount of unhealthy food for everyone.

Beside her, Thelonious looked pointedly at his son and Wells quickly ducked his head behind the cloud of white cotton candy he was not eating.

"Just the air guns at the shooting gallery over there," added Marcus with a sheepish grin.

Next to Thelonious, Aurora kept a stoic face. She looked pale and tired when they waved goodbye against the setting sun half an hour later.

Abby sighs.

"I thanked him," Clarke reassures her mother, "and we all got something to exchange: Octavia picked two iTunes cards at the Whack-a-Mole, and gave one to Wells and he gave each of us the disposable cameras he won at the Hook-a-Duck, and everyone was happy," she says shrugging lightly.

Abby is sure Aurora will not be _too_ happy when the camera's films will have to be developed (the four kids have been snapping pics all afternoon), and the giant dragon plushie will take up half of Octavia's already small bed space, but she says nothing. For the four of them it probably was the best possible arrangement - she's almost proud of how easily they swapped prizes based on personal predilection rather than value.

She finishes brushing her daughter's golden locks and kisses the top of her head like she always does, bids her goodnight and gets a promise to not stay up late sketching even if it's Saturday.

She thought the travelling carnival in town would make a good distraction for Clarke the weekend she'd planned to be in Arizona, but after the hospital charity night everything changed. Or maybe just her point of view.

She's fooled herself into thinking she could keep things separate. Over four-hundred miles away, another State, another house, it's been so easy to think of it as a safe haven, to be preserved, kept locked away, untouched and unsoiled - so easy to pretend distance would wash her up as well and she would _be_ in that space alone for those few weekends only.

But Marcus doesn't exist in a void, nor does the rest of their lives - even if she deliberately mislead herself into believing she could handle it. She couldn't blame him. (She doesn't, she blames herself).

She finds him sitting on the steps in her backyard, playing crosswords on his phone, so she slips her arms around him from above and kisses his temple.

"Sorry I left you alone so long," she whispers in his ear.

He snorts and rests his head back against her chest, glancing coily up at her. "Oh I kept busy." He gestures to his phone and the potted plants hanging from the porch. "Your petunias were thirsty," he informs her.

She purses her lips and sees his attention shift there. Aside from a few stolen kisses when he got out of his car and before dinner, he's back to being guarded about physical affection - mindful of Clarke, she thinks squirming inside for conflicting reasons - but at a quarter to midnight in her backyard there's only a blissfully chilly breeze and the soundtrack of a sleepy city. And she really missed him a lot (a lot lot).

The angle is awkward and his reading glasses catch on her hair when she deepens the kiss, she winces when he shifts and they pull and they both end up giggling into one another. He gets rid of his spectacles with an apology as she circles around to kneel between his legs. His hands slide along the back of her thighs under her dress and up, up, and she moans contentedly against his mouth, plunging her fingers in his hair. The cool night air makes an interesting contrast with his warm body pressed to hers. He moves on to graze her throat with scratchy beard and soft lips as she kisses his temple, otherwise lost in the moment.

"Thank you for being here," she says softly.

He nuzzles her collarbone and tastes the soft skin just above her breast - the way she knows will leave a mark - before answering uncharacteristically coolly: "Thank you for inviting me."

It's a bit of a low blow but she expected it - and deserves it - so she doesn't even pretend to blush, she sits back and combs his hair out of his forehead biting her lip. "I don't know what I was afraid of," she lies, "you're good with kids and today went well…"

He smirks and then averts his eyes. "About that, I have a feeling Bellamy is thinking of dropping out of school."

"What?" she blurts out stilling her hands mid-air, confused.

"He asked information about joining law enforcements and the kind of life to expect. He can't wait to help his family, financially; did you know he works twice a week as a pizza delivery boy?" She shakes her head, blinking, stunned, trying to process the news (and how the conversation took that path in the first place since they were making out like horny teenagers only seconds ago), "Well he's got a quick mind and a sharp eye, he's probably a natural, got all of the targets at the shooting gallery," Marcus says holding her close as she tries to slip out of his arms.

"Marcus," she warns "if you encouraged him with this Aurora will have your head on a stick!" she hisses low enough it sounds like a growl.

He smiles, almost amused - and she briefly thinks about hitting him on the head for being so smug - then continues: "He's a smart kid, loves history and philosophy, he just cannot see any money coming from that. He still has two years to figure it out."

His hands release her to caress at her sides, and she loses a bit of balance, catching herself with a hand on the grass behind her. His eyes are locked in hers in that way that is unsettling for how much they can say.

"Abby-"

She sighs and stops him pulling on the collar of his shirt till their lips collide again with a spark of electricity that only makes her want more. He kisses her back just as avidly, warm hands roaming the skin they can reach and making her shiver, pushing gently on her shoulder - but pulling roughly to still feel her flush against him like he can't make up his mind, and she with him - till she feels cool and slightly damp under her back and her hair are tangled in his fingers and grass blades and they both have to catch their breath.

He's on his hands and knees above her, looking down at her with dark eyes full of promises as the sky beyond is alight with stars.

Or maybe it's only in her head, that fraudulent sense of invulnerability of a _truth that conquers all_ , a lullaby for lovesicks, a rhyme for a pop song. She reaches up to cup his cheek and he kisses her palm and she knows then there _is_ no turning back for him either, even if she lies now. He _loves_ her too.

"I can't leave Los Angeles," she admits.

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"There's Clarke, and my work-"

"Abby, it's ok," he cuts her off gently shaking his head.

"No it's not."

The city beyond the hedge swishes louder, as if smothering her voice, like a warning. He doesn't seem to understand, clearly, he sits back on his heels and waits for her to go on and all she sees now are the distant stars above. If he expects her to ask him to move then he is wrong. But that's the hardest part: she wants him so much closer, just not here.

She bites her lip and tugs on his hand for him to settle down (even if they're not young anymore and they probably look ridiculous and foolish and will bear the consequences the next morning) and he does, lying on his back beside her on the grass - with a crack of his knee and a light brush of lips at her fingers that makes her eyes sting with salt and guilt.

"I want to leave, but I can't. I sold my soul so Clarke could have a shot at going to college and a comfortable life after Jake died," she whispers then.

That was the moment she'd sworn to never need anyone again, to never depend on anyone else. And yet… It's not Arizona, it's him, her safe haven, even if he's not aware of it - or even if he is and accepts it as it is - and it isn't fair. Looking out to the sky seems like a safe bet because she's not sure she wants to witness the moment curiosity becomes deception.

"To whom?" he prods quietly.

"Dante Wallace and his son."

He's silent for awhile after that. His thumb keeps his sweet caressing of her slender fingers in his and it's soothing - but maybe it's unintentional, a habit - and she dares looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She knows what his next question will be and what brand of calm he is collecting. She's subconsciously grateful they're having this conversation at night, with the grass and the breeze and the buzz of invisible life reminding her the world didn't end - yet.

He was far away, shielded by distance and blindness, and now he's amidst the chaos of her own space trying to navigate dark muddy waters, and that was never supposed to happen. He turns to face her, squeezing her hand in his when he sees her blinking back tears of fear. He's not drifting - yet - even now, even there, he simply asks:

"Why?"

She simply answers: "Because they killed my husband."

* * *

 _AN2: ooops! What did I do? Welcome to the third part of this journey!_

 _AN3: I think baby!Octavia would want to be a ronin dragon slayer when she grows up. But then settle for master dragon trainer because it's better to have friends and it's even better when they spit fire!_


	16. Things you didn't say at all

_AN: that cliff was fun! now this was tricky...  
_

* * *

 **Things you didn't say at all**

Before they can get to Indra and the files in the back of her locker at the Clinic, the drug, the missing woman and the tests, Abby has to tell him about Dante Wallace (Ark Medical President), his son Cage (MW Pharmaceuticals shareholder) and most of all: Jake.

"I know taking the money put me on the wrong side of the law," she says quietly, and it sounds louder in the dead of night, her kitchen is too big for confessions, the light is wrong, her eyes are pleading and he's wide awake, unable to process her words, except: "I am trying to fix this, Marcus, and I need you to stay out of it."

"Abby-"

"I'm just... I need you to trust me."

He looks into her watery eyes and feels that chill coming up his spine. "I can help you, Abby."

She shakes her head just enough for a tear to escape her lashes.

Four years ago, Jake Griffin went to bed with a splitting headache and less than twenty-four hours later Abby was a widow.

Marcus waits - because there's nothing he can really do but that - as Abby fills two mugs with tea and sits in front of him at the kitchen table, their hands almost touching, yet she never felt so distant (just when he was trying to get closer).

Before the hospital event night he thought she was protecting Clarke, in case things went wrong between them, he could understand that. Then suddenly nothing made sense. Their daily phone calls were shorter and tense and that voice in the back of his mind telling him it would soon end was starting to sound more and more insistent. It was right, and it was wrong, it was not about them as much as it was affecting them.

Them, as it turns out, is a very loose term.

Nine-year-old Clarke processed grief her own way, seeing her medical doctor mother failing to cure Jake and unable to shed tears at her husband's funeral - or ever after that - and concluded Abby let her father die.

But things, as it always is with family matters, are more complicated than that.

When Jake woke up delirious and feverish in the middle of the night, even after the aspirin she gave him before bed, Abby called Thelonious (instead of an ambulance) and as fever rose and symptoms piled up they took him to Ark Medical (instead of the nearest public hospital facility) and that's when things went from bad to ugly.

Marcus listens, trying to understand as best he can while Abby explains how Jake's body gave up, one internal organ after another.

"Meningitis," she says "is still deadly. Even if I recognized the stiffness in his neck and other symptoms, to determine the type of bacteria or virus that caused the infection is necessary to choose the appropriate cure." He nods on the other side of the table and she continues, eyes on the soothing amber color of the tea in her hands. "Cage Wallace came down to ward while we were waiting for the spinal tap results, to introduce a new broad-spectrum antibiotic MW Pharmaceuticals was successfully testing. He insisted I let Jake be human patient zero... He said…"

Marcus waits, uncomfortably, for her to find her words and take a deep breath. It's the most difficult conversation they ever had, he knows. From the way she clasps the mug and scrapes her nails on a loose thread in her cardigan, he guesses it's one she never really wanted to have. He can't blame her. He's not sure he wants to hear it himself. He watches her collecting her thoughts, helplessly thinking nothing he can do now would change how she feels. The path down memory lane is one she can only walk alone and even if she tries not to let her throat clog with tears he can hear their echo still.

"The researcher in charge of trials, Lorelei Tsing, said they were having great laboratory results with it, that it was enough to eradicate the illness, that the sooner they could start treatment, the better chance he had to fully recover, that waiting any longer would be counterproductive."

"They gave him an experimental medication?"

Abby stumbles a little on words, or maybe he can't quite comprehend the difference between clinical trials and off-label use, but one thing is clear at least: that drug killed Jake Griffin.

"Both Cage and Tsing were very adamant that time could not be wasted for the cure to be effective," continues Abby, "Thelonious agreed, and I trusted him, so I caved, I signed the papers. Jake was already unconscious at that point. I thought I was doing the right thing…"

Her voice breaks a little, but even without that clue he knows she still feels guilty, and vulnerable, and plagued by fear. From across the table she stares at him with somber, glossy eyes, looking without seeing anything but a nightmare that still feels too real now, diving back in time.

Jake Griffin never woke up again. At first the fever seemed to drop, but a few hours later he had a seizure. Then another. Fever rose again and shortly after that his kidneys gave up, his lungs collapsed and finally his heart stopped without them being able to do anything to prevent it.

"After the funeral," she says at last, "there was a board meeting at the hospital. MW Pharmaceuticals representatives brought all their _evidences_ and results to prove they had nothing to do with the fatality that was Jake's death. Still... Thelonious told me off-records that the drug trials were suspended till further notice and Tsing was being transferred. The moment I was asked to sign a report I knew I had some leverage. And I used it," she adds, "I demanded MW to stop the research on that medication. And then I asked Dante Wallace to fix after his son. I opened an account in Clarke's name with what they gave me, I got a raise for my wage from Ark Medical and the liberty to trade as many days off as I see fit; no other hospital would pay as well and leave me time off for Clarke too and they know that... And so I signed that report telling their drug didn't kill my husband and let them off the hook."

Marcus weighs her words as she fiddles with her mug, unable to look at him for the time being. She confessed a felony after all. He's not sure what his reaction should be - or, better, what reaction she expects from him. They've been dating for months and he suspected nothing at all - now he feels foolish, for starters, and a little deceived, like he didn't know Abby Griffin at all. It shouldn't surprise him that the woman who stopped at nothing to get home to her daughter, who convinced him to cross the desert, who is singlehandedly arranging free medical treatments and surgery for a patient, is so used to have it her own way she's wringing money out of her husband's murderers and collecting evidences to incriminate them at the same time. He shouldn't even be impressed, but he is, for a split second, before a sense of impending doom takes over.

He rubs at his beard, feeling numb but still impossibly awake, with a multitude of thoughts jumbling in his head. He blinks rapidly because Abby in front of him looks paler, almost fading into the background - and maybe it's the soft kitchen light but maybe she's slipping away - and all he wants is to grab her hand and reconnect. He just can't. Not now.

She asked for time off and filled it with charity work at the Clinic, to make amends, to ease the guilt (much as he did). He can't help but think some of that time went into their on and off weekends back home in Arizona and wonders if she feels guilty for that as well. Were their weekends spent laughing and rolling in bed riddled with a sense of shame too? Was she regretting ever trying to get past this story and live a little every time she hung up to him? Was he a distraction from daily misery? Was that why she never asked him to spend the weekend in L.A.? Because he would have been part of that routine?

 _I am trying to fix this, Marcus, and I need you to stay out of it_. Was she telling him it was over?

"What does Jaha have to do with it?" he finally asks.

She raises her eyes on him and stills her hands. "Nothing."

"He's in love with you," he simply states as if it was self-explanatory.

"He is not!" she utters, "He's just looking out for himself and his good name."

Marcus can't help but snort, distrustful, and repeats: "He is, Abby."

"Marcus, this is not the point."

"I'm just saying." He shrugs noncommittally and picks up his own mug just to occupy his hands when her parted lips and squinting eyes are too much to bear. Why must he be so petty? How is he going to justify being jealous because she probably asked another man with access to direct information to help her and requested _him_ to stay out of it instead?

Then he looks at her and all his instincts tell him to protect her, even when she needs no protection, even when she's staring at him with tears filling her eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw that promises venom.

 _I need you to trust me_. He's failing her. Over and over.

He trusts her, he does. He wants to slap himself. She spares him the trouble, without ever raising a hand.

"You stupid, stupid man," she hisses "You are a Sheriff! All this time I've been dating you, God, Thelonious sweated and fretted after me thinking I was meeting with you to report what happened! Then when he finally got it in his thick head that I was simply, laughably in love, he tried to insinuate you were _just_ a distraction, that I'd never find other work, a better life, anywhere else! Because he's terrified, that if I give everything up, that if I leave for _you_ , that if I spill the beans and a lawsuit happens he'll lose his job and his career and his position! The moment I introduced you two he probably thought I was building a case against the hospital!"

"Well, you _are,_ " he counters.

Abby blinks, letting out a shaking sigh, then clucks her tongue and concedes the point: "Yes. But you were supposed to have nothing to do with it. I never wanted to involve you in this... _mess._ " (For lack of a better definition).

She looks (and sounds) helpless - and he catches himself before an idiotic grin spreads on his face at the worst possible time. _Laughably in love_ , she said. Fools, they are, the both of them. He's usually better at reading people but when it comes to Abby Griffin he's just another knight at her feet, ready for battle, when she's already running to the frontline by herself.

He stretches his fingers just enough to brush hers and it's all she needs to take his hand, finally. He gives her a tentative smile, wanting to be reassuring, somehow.

"What changed?"

Because something must have changed.

"I wanted you to meet Thelonious before I told you, so he would... I don't know, have the impression you really are not involved. And maybe he'll reassure Wallace I'm not plotting anything and let me breathe a little."

Her hand is warm in his and her cheeks gained a bit of color after her exasperated outburst, the kitchen seems smaller now, even if the light is still casting shadows and their tea turned cold.

"But then," she continues hesitant, "Then I had to tell you now because I want to make sure you'll be... more careful," she says, "safe…" The look of dread is back and the tone matches the scared one he heard over the phone and he suddenly understands. Even before she tells him about Anya, he feels it in his guts, she thinks the Wallaces will go any length to ensure their empire is solid, and they don't need to destroy evidences, they only need to destroy _her_ , her reputation, her work, push her to the edge, threatening what is left she holds dear - Clarke, and now him, if he's a lover and not an officer - waiting for her to make a mistake and rule herself out.

But he's still very much an officer and so he pulls on her hand and perches on his seat to meet her halfway above the table. " _I'm_ the big mean with the guns and the law on his side and _they_ should be afraid of me," he hisses secretively.

She purses her lips barely suppressing a smile and chokes on her words: "You're a fluffy puppy, with a problematic girlfriend, trying to make everything better with diplomacy."

"Perhaps," he half rolls his eyes, half agrees with a grin of his own. Then she gently tugs at his beard and he slips a hand behind her neck to pull her in a kiss.


	17. When you thought I was asleep

_AN: this was the hardest (to date) to write!_

* * *

 **Things you said when you thought I was asleep**

Abby finally met Callie Cartwig on a Saturday afternoon in Marcus' living-room.

She was wearing a soft, light fabric blouse in a deep green shade that hung perfectly on her small frame. When she stood next to Marcus in his kitchen, smoking a cigarette and smiling easily at him as they caught up on life, Abby couldn't help thinking she's still the perfect size to fit in his arms, under his chin.

Then her husband appeared in the frame as he stretched to get another glass of lemonade and Raven's comment had her ears aflame for being caught staring through the open door. At least from her spot on the couch Clarke feigned ignorance and kept going though the pictures in Marcus' family albums Raven stacked on the living-room small table.

Abby can't sleep. Instead of Raven's teenage scowl under the sheriff's hat, or the yellowing photos of past summers in the Canyons, she remembers the bruises and the sclerotized veins pictures, the reports with the descriptions of devastated bodies and the effect of withdrawal, and she can't relax enough to fall asleep. Even if she stays still on the bed, in the dark, even if Marcus is softly snoring behind her and she can feel the comforting warmth of his body, so close, yet not quite touching. Some sort of penance she imposed herself (and him) that is actually driving her mad - and insomniac.

It would be too easy to just roll on his side and burrow her face in his chest like she usually does - because feeling his regular heartbeat, with the light murmur she knows to be there, would help her calm down. But she won't. She'll take Clarke - who whined for three of the six hours ride to Arizona but declared she would never leave after the morning at the riding ring - and drive back home where she'll eventually come up with pathetic excuses she knows he'll shot down one by one, till he finds a half truth - because he knows her too well now, and she hates him for making it so difficult sometimes.

Raven made it all look so simple. _Eleven years_ sounds like a lifetime to be in a long distance relationship, but somehow Callie Cartwig made it work, from when she moved to Richmond for her studies, till she graduated, found an internship, a job at the Commonwealth's Attorney Office, and life happened. A feat of willpower Abby clearly cannot replicate (and she hates herself for even trying). She's so used to have it her way that it's disconcerting when he catches her eyes and winks at her from across the room (the cheek of him!) and she can't help smirking back like a lovesick schoolgirl, all of her resolutions crumbling.

 _She was made for greater stuff than the desert_ , Marcus told her once, _I could have never offered her more than a boring life in the country_. She remembered his words this afternoon, watching his furrowed brow, leaning on the living-room door frame - even if he'd brought a chair for himself from the kitchen - listening to the calm voice that once whispered words of love in his ear. Ten years later and they're still the best of friends, he's godfather to her twins and she is taking on his new _problematic girlfriend_ case in her summer vacation, between visiting her family and old friends. So when Indra arrived, and her husband went back to her parents' with their children, Callie Cartwig sat confidently on the other side of the small table, spoke with soothing voice and moved with grace, trying effortlessly to make everyone feel at ease despite the topic.

"How did you relate the reports to MW Pharmaceuticals?" asked the lawyer, and Abby could see the dismay in her look, mirroring hers of a year ago, when she was approached by a social worker at that Albuquerque conference with _lucky guesses_ about Jake's death.

It was an African-American woman with a history she proudly wears on her scarred face and an abiding glower that commands compliance: Indra. She runs a network of shelters for homeless and addicts in Virginia and came across a series of apparently unrelated reports about odd withdrawal symptoms, incredibly violent behaviour, inexplicable deaths (in a few cases even cannibalism), and digging back in those people's stories she connected the dots, found links, made phone calls. Then came asking the good questions.

"They were all recruited as part of a project denominated _Cerberus_ at some point in the past three years," explained Indra, sitting beside her with the look of someone going to battle. Junkies, homeless, socially rejected, outcasts and misfits, people carefully chosen for their disappearance would go unnoticed by most. Anonymously - and most certainly unethically - enlisted to be treated with a drug that is not a cure but a synthetic vaccine, dormant until triggered and then destructive for the patient's immune system that then requires periodical inoculation.

Shifting her gaze between the two women sitting in front of her, Callie listened carefully to the story of how they slowly unveiled horror upon horror behind the research Cage Wallace agreed to end in exchange for Abby's signature four years ago. Instead, he transferred Tsing to their headquarters, promoted her, and founded her off-records experiments, which resulted in the long list of names and codes Callie held in her hands. She arched an eyebrow and asked: "If this is not the official trial tests documentation the FDA is receiving, how did you get this file?"

Indra shifted on her seat and shot back visibly irritated: "Does it matter? We have it! It's time to do something."

Abby can't sleep now, and it's not the breeze making the wind chimes rattle down in the backyard. She laid down all their truths this afternoon and the weight of guilt is heavy on her chest. She should have never got Marcus into this, she thought she could fix things but she was wrong, so very wrong, and Callie Cartwig, in her infinite, firm and unquestionable elegance, made it clear for everyone.

"I got it," Abby answered then, avoiding Marcus' questioning look to fake calm as best she could, "from MW's database." Implied was that it was hacked - by Sinclair, a communication software engineer and Jake's ex coworker she still meets, with his wife, from time to time over a quick lunch, like she used to do when her husband was alive - and Abby can't quite keep track of how many people she got involved in her quest, but can't even pretend to regret their help. She can only soldier on and follow along Indra's determination to destroy Mount Weather.

"All the names on that list are people who've been treated with that drug, people that are potentially going to die if we do nothing," pressed Indra leaning closer on her seat.

Some of those names have already been barred, since they're dead - twenty-three of them because at the time Tsing's team still had to figure out the right dosage (that's what caused Jake's death, in the end, but his name was carefully removed from the papers).

It's personal. Too personal, for both her and Indra, who lost patients in her structures because they can't fight withdrawals fast enough and no rehab program seems to work. It's personal, but personal is working against them, fueling their desire for vengeance - instead of justice - and personal is the kind of battle Cage and Dante Wallace will fight, crushing them, destroying their credibility, their career, their name, before half the story is out to the press.

She thinks about Callie's words and simply cannot let it happen.

"If we go to court I'll need at least someone on that list to testify in front of a jury."

"I will," Abby replied resolutely. She was there all the while when Jake died, she's been collecting data for months, she's a medical doctor and even if Tsing's - ruthlessly genius, she must admit - research is at least ten years more advanced than anything she's ever seen, she's still the only one in the room who understands its language.

"We can get them to talk, we did it once," countered Indra.

"No, I will testify, I can do it! We can't risk more lives!"

"Abby," interrupted Marcus folding his arms, "you can't, you were never in Virginia."

"Abby, if you decide to show up in court it might open up a separate case in California about your husband's death," said Callie matter of factly - and only the gentle curve of her dark, almond eyes softened her words - "And... you might face charges for what happened after that. Are you sure you are ready for a trial?"

 _Think of Clarke_ , she tells herself willing her eyes to close in the darkness of the bedroom (they sting with tears that won't come out) and ignoring the very subtle shift of the mattress behind her. Either she sinks both Cage and Dante Wallace pressing justice for Jake (and bear the consequences) or she lets them walk - hopefully right into a Virginia State Prison in Cage's case.

 _Think of Clarke_. Clarke who waved at her from the back of Raven's off-road Kawasaki after lunch - not before she fussed and fretted about the borrowed helmet clasp - gripping the young mechanic's slender figure (like a koala, she thinks with a little fondness), and came home flushed and full of smiles and surprised her with a hug in the middle of the kitchen and an even rarer _I love you, Mom_ that knocked the air out of her lungs and made her forget to be crossed with Raven for letting a thirteen year old drink beer.

Everything she did was for Clarke and she'd do it all over again, but what Clarke would want, in the end, is justice for her father. And that's where all of her sins find her out.

"What happened to your witness?" questioned Callie.

"She's... gone," replied Indra swiftly.

"Anya was supposed to meet me in L.A.," supplied Abby, tugging a strand of hair behind her ear with a defeated sigh, "the week before the hospital event. We only spoke on the phone before that, but she never showed up to the meeting."

"I found her car at the airport, and her apartment was wiped clean," added Indra, barely controlling her temper with pursed lips.

"There are over five-hundred names on this list, they can't pay them all off," commented Callie.

Abby shared a guilty glance with the African-American woman sitting beside her, opened her mouth to speak, but ultimately bit her lip, unable to find her words. It would have made sense if they weren't talking about MW Pharmaceuticals of course, but they were. And since the beginning of it all, since Indra approached her with her truths, the more Abby dig in the filthy mess that was the _Cerberus Project_ , the more she related Mount Weather with a mafia family business.

"I don't think she was _paid,_ " concluded Marcus earnestly from his removed spot by the door.

He understands. None of them will testify, if they do they'll lose their supply of drug and die or disappear like Anya and Abby can't bear to stay still and let it happen. He does understand, that's probably why he met her eyes and told her without a word that he was not going to let her have it her way this time.

They need to offer them an alternative, a rehab program that keeps them alive at least - something they don't have yet.

"I'll have Nyko figure it out," argued Indra with the same determination Abby put into being on the frontline.

She knows fighting each other would only help MW's case, so Abby stays still on the bed and tries to sleep, but thoughts are piling up nonetheless, half cooked plans that would look foolish in the morning light, but that seem like the only way out while the night is still dark outside the window.

Marcus is a public figure, a respected man, a good man, and he loves her, _God_ , he is stupid enough to still love her after all. And because it's personal, Wallace will destroy his career and his life and it will be her fault - unless she does something about it first.

Marcus stirs again beside her and she hears him softly moan, still trapped in his nightmare. How is she going to keep them all safe when this mess of a story will blow up in their face? _She_ is trapped in a nightmare. Then he jerks awake and his hand finds her hip instinctively, barely touching, while his breathing goes back to normal and she dares stay still. He shifts on his side and spoons her like he usually does when she's not nestled on his chest - like they've never been apart.

The air is whist and the world is dead, Clarke sleeps peacefully in the other room, and his arm comes around her middle, heavy and solid and - finally - comforting enough that tears spring silently to wet the pillow. She feels the tip of his nose nuzzling lightly between her shoulder blades and his breath against her skin when he whispers a single prayer:

"Please let me keep you."

* * *

 _AN2: shoutout to adamsforthought who guided me through 3 different States codes and laws I promptly disregarded! (I'm sure Callie will take good care of things nevertheless)  
_


	18. That I wish you hadn't

_AN: let me love you guest reviewer! thank you :)  
_

* * *

 **Things you said that I wish you hadn't**

"Hey."

"Hey," she says back unsmiling. The sun is gone but its light lingers after dinner and she's out in the veranda, sitting under the hanging petunias in bloom. It's the gaudy color of the flowers that accentuates her unhealthy complexion. (Otherwise he might just think it's a poor video output).

"You look tired," he comments creasing his brow.

"Thanks! How nice of you," she replies, "You don't look too bad yourself." But an amused smile is tugging at the corner of her lips nonetheless and Marcus just stares at his phone's screen with a grin as she loosen her braid and shakes her head, sighing.

"You worked late tonight too." It's a statement more than a question.

"Yeah, and then I took the kids at Sinai, we just came home. We stayed till they kicked us out of her room," she adds, balancing the phone on her knees while she untangles her hair. Then changes topic as if she remembered just then: "I heard back from Nyko. I think the apheresis treatment worked, if his first patient survives another night then we might have something to trade for their deposition."

Marcus smiles, listening to her blabbering with half-lidded eyes about medical terms he's unfamiliar with, thinking absentmindedly that she is so beautiful, still, when her eyes crinkles and she pouts at something trivial like a stain on her blouse. And maybe it's her passion or maybe it's the rarity of seeing her these days that has him gazing fondly at his screen. He aches to unknot the stiffness in her shoulders and kiss the spot behind her ear that makes her purr. He misses her - painfully.

"Good, if everything goes accordingly Callie will collect statements in the next few weeks and get a court order by September."

Abby sighs again, stopping the light massaging of her shoulder mid-movement to stare back at him. Oddly, it makes him instantly self-conscious and he has to resist the urge to look around and make sure the room is (somewhat) tidy and he _did_ pick up the clothes he discarded on the floor earlier before stepping into the shower.

She purses her lips and drops her eyes. Something crossed her mind and he'll forever wonder what it was because she doesn't share with him. She says instead: "Sorry, I shouldn't even have started, can we just... not talk about this for awhile, it's like... it's taken over my life."

And it's true, sadly. She works at the hospital and volunteers at the Clinic and in her - very rare - spare time, the past weeks she's been busy thinking up ways to keep MW patients alive through their withdrawal - consulting with Indra's therapist supervisor, Nyko.

"How's Aurora?" he asks then, ruffling his hair (still damp from the shower) and praying because he's not sure reverting back to their first topic is a good idea either.

"She's... fine?" Abby's face crumples in a mix of perplexity and disbelief he'll never admit to find adorable. "She seemed calm earlier, and looked better than me, I'm sure," she snorts, stealing a chuckle from him, "She repeated long enough that she was not afraid and it must be something Bellamy and Octavia hear a lot, she had them repeat it themselves as well, Marcus, Aurora is growing little soldiers."

 _Out of necessity_ , he thinks. How different the two mothers are: Abby is trying her best to shield Clarke's childhood from any hardness while Aurora is aging her kids beforehand, training them for the reality of it. He can't make up his mind, he's not sure what he'd do if he had kids of his own… That idea died too long ago. "How are they? Really."

Abby shakes her head looking down at her lap and hiding her eyes in a curtain of messy curls. "They're staying here tonight, so they won't be alone and won't have to take the bus to the hospital in the morning, before the surgery. Octavia is excited for the sleepover in Clarke's room, Bellamy's gone upstairs in the guest room already, he's a bit moody. I think he understands better than his sister that their mother might not make it out," she says softly.

"Abby," he warns "It's gonna be ok."

She looks up at the screen and into his eyes and he sees how desperately she wants to believe him but she's so tired, so very tired, there are tears of exhaustion at the corner of her eyes - and he's still mesmerized at the sight, feeling almost blessed that she's not shying away with her fears, not with him.

"Or they could be two orphans tomorrow, because of me, because I convinced Aurora to go under the knife, because it took so long to find a surgeon that would do it for free, despite the risks…" she lists, then bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. The day is gone and no one turned the lights on in the kitchen or the veranda, so he can barely distinguish her features, glowing in blue hues from the screen light in the growing shadow. He follows the glimmer of a tear escaping her lashes. He's not certain he knows why she's crying now, that impending sense of doom is back whispering in his ears, making his skin crawl.

"It's gonna be ok, Abby," he repeats, berating himself and his lack of originality, "Everything will sort itself out, it's just... it's happening all at once, the cure, the trial, Aurora's surgery, and you're under pressure... It's almost over, Abby."

Whatever happens to them, whatever the outcome, Clarke, Bellamy, Octavia, and the rest of the kids won't remember the stories their parents made up for them, but how they faced the hurdles - and copy them, like kids do.

She nods slowly, closing her eyes to take a deep breath and collect her thoughts. "I'll check on Aurora after the surgery and see how things go next week. Then I thought I might get a few days off and take Clarke away for awhile," she adds cautiously - and he doesn't notice the strangled nature of her statement, nor the watery texture of her voice.

By then, he thinks, Callie should have her depositions and things would flow by themselves. Get away from the hospital and the Wallaces is not a bad idea. "Of course, you can come in anytime."

She blinks, confused for a moment, as he opens his mouth to add something that gets swallowed when she says softly, almost choking: "I meant, me and Clarke, just... just me and Clarke."

 _Oh_... There it is, the quietus. He sits on the edge of his bed with the muted TV and the outside world breathing in the room from the open window, staring at his phone in his hands swaying slightly - as she discreetly wipes her eyes - and he's not ready to let go.

"Of course... ok." He nods his comprehension even if he's not really understanding. The breeze makes the wind chimes sing in the yard, he looks into the screen to those big wide eyes of hers filled with sorrow and he can't make sense of it, because the joyous sound doesn't match her tears.

"Rather than a closing, it feels like it's just the beginning," she tries to explain, "Like it's the edge of something bigger than us, Marcus, and I need... a little time to figure out... what's best-"

"Of course," he repeats dumbly. What else could he do? Nothing... Nothing. He's four-hundred miles away and she's running ahead to the frontline without a plan so he's left behind fumbling with his thoughts.

"-for me and Clarke."

"Abby?"

"I love you," she says, breathless, "but I don't know what I want anymore, I need... a little time."

Of course she does. Of course now that he's most worried about her doing something stupid she's running away... _Of course_... He wants to be angry but can't even muster the strength for it. She's being honest and he'll have to accept that.

"Do we have to have this conversation on FaceTime? Can't I... come over or…"

She sniffs and his words die when she presses a hand to her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut. "I'm sorry," she says at last, "I'm sorry," she chokes out again. For a moment he thinks she's going to explain further but she doesn't. She wipes her eyes again on the sleeve of her cardigan instead, because there is really nothing to explain. They have separate lives they have been putting on hold for those weekends they spent together and now something's gotta give.

He stares back at her through the screen but the soft waves of her hair and the hard lines of her cheekbones already feel foreign. Her lips are pressed together and he knows there are no more _I love you_ s stocked, just clenched jaws to stop the quivering of her suffered decision. He just stares.

"Can I call you?" he dares, "Sometime?"

"I'll call you," she answers after a pause - and it feels like a rock to the head.

"Ok," is all he can say, stuttering slightly, "Ok... take care."

She lowers her eyes and he thinks maybe she expected him to put up more of a fight and he's failing some sort of test (again). But she just replies quietly: "You too, take care."

Then she hangs up and he has to learn to breath underwater.

* * *

 _AN: You, keep breathing! See you next week_


	19. With too many miles between us

_AN: when you thought things couldn't get worse  
_

* * *

 **Things you said with too many miles between us**

The TV is on the news channel when Abby gets out of the tiny bathroom and she catches the coda of what is probably on everyone's mouth by now. The volume is low enough that it doesn't carry across the room, but there's a picture of Cage Wallace on the screen behind the anchorman's head and when the images change she recognizes the lean and sure figure of Callie Cartwig, wrapped in a marine blue dress and white light shrug, making her way through a crowd of demanding journalists' microphones.

Abby peeks at Clarke sitting cross-legged in the middle of the queen size bed with her hair still wet tangling down her shoulders (which is mildly annoying in itself), but she needn't worry: she's rapping swiftly on her phone and not paying any mind to the news. She barely answers when her mother asks who's on the other side of her dire texting.

"Raven," Clarke says almost casually - and Abby instantly tenses, slowing the motion of the towel on her wet hair.

"How is she?" she asks meekly.

Clarke drops the phone on the dull bed cover and bores her eyes into her mother's across the room with a challenge in her brow. "Confused," she answers, "and I am too, Mom, when did you dump Sheriff Kane?"

Abby stares back at her thirteen-year-old annoyed expression and considers lying (first and foremost because talking about it with Clarke is exactly what she was trying to avoid and secondly... she would have to admit out loud what she is not ready to tell herself). But settles for passive aggressive: "Is that what he's saying?"

"No, Mom," Clarke rolls her blue eyes - like her father used to when she was being obnoxious - and wipes a strand out of her face when she throws her legs over the edge of the bed, "Raven says he kept the beard for _months_ , because you told him you liked it, and now he's shaving again."

Abby is confounded. Much against her wishes, she feels a flush creeping up her neck to redden her cheeks and instinctively wraps herself up more tightly in her bathrobe. "Is he?" she says noncommittally. The indictment against MW Pharmaceuticals news was set aside for a suspected kidnap case the anchorman is commenting with an appropriately concerned face, but Abby retakes possession of the remote on her daughter's bed and changes the channel to something more lighthearted just in case.

"Oh my God, Mom, is this why we're here?" asks Clarke making a show of pointing out the hotel room, its wooden furniture and the two queen size beds, with a wide wave of the arm. "Did you drag me out to this whole middle-of-nowhere-forest _thing_ because you're heartbroken?"

"No!" Abby snaps, and before she can think better of it she adds: "I'm not." And it's a lie. She drops on the bed and tries (unsuccessfully) to hide her discomfort from her daughter's scowl by getting ready for bed.

It's been a mistake. All of it. Jake wanted to take Clarke camping at Sequoia National Park, Jake talked about climbing the Moro Rock, Jake said they'd toast marshmallows by the fire the summer after he died... Jake planned all those things four years ago as she smiled at him from the passenger seat and he drove on the 405. They never went, of course. Abby curses herself for bringing Clarke here now - what was she thinking? - She booked a hotel room because at forty-two sleeping on the ground under the stars didn't sound as appealing as it once did (and Clarke was already asking about wi-fi availability anyway). Still, everything about the last four days reminds her of Jake, even in a place she's never seen him breathe.

"What are we doing here?"

Abby finally lifts her eyes, because Clarke's tone is soft and her shoulders slumped and she's looking back at her mournfully, like she knew where her thoughts were wandering.

"Not everything is about a love story, Clarke," she says drily.

"But this is," counters her daughter, "be it Dad or Kane, _this is_ , so figure it out." Then she gets up from the bed and tosses Abby her phone, grabs the hair-drier on the dresser and closes the bathroom door after herself.

 _She is wrong_ , she thinks, _she's wrong._ She's wrong, till she's not.

Marcus answers after the seventh ring, making her bite her nails, and his voice is groggy with sleep.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." She checks the clock but it's not even ten and he says something about a double shift.

"Where are you?" he asks then.

"Sequoia National Park." The connection is spotty even at the hotel so she has to content herself with a regular call, press the phone to her ear and just imagine his messy hair and sleepy smile when she continues: "We climbed Moro Rock today." They even took a selfie, on the summit, Clarke smiling brightly and squinting at the sun against the wind ruffling her braid, Abby pressing her cheek to hers, hiding her remorse behind shades and a collected smile. She doesn't tell him her first thought has been to send him the photo (she doesn't even tell him about the photo).

"When will you be back?"

"The day after tomorrow," she answers. She wants to tell him how much she missed his voice, or telling him about the days they missed, she wants to crawl under the covers and pretend nothing changed and chat all night - even if he yawns repeatedly and Clarke will come out of the bathroom any minute - but they have no more time to borrow.

"You were right," he says surprising her, "it's clearer now, what I want."

She has to hold her breath. She thinks about him shaving off his beard and taking double shifts and she feels her eyes already filling with tears. "Really?"

"I love my job, and I love my desert," he says, probably sitting up in bed, bare chested - and her breath itches in her throat - "I don't think I was ready, but I am now, just like Jasper did, pack up and leave, I can resign, sell the house, rent a hole in L.A., find a job as a guard, or... something," he says.

"What?" Abby gasps, "No!"

He is silent on the other side and she is cursing herself and frantically trying to collect her wits before she pushes this whole conversation further in the wrong direction. "You can't," she blurts out at last. What if it doesn't work between them? What if he hates Los Angeles? What about Raven? What about his _100_ project and the juveniles he's reintegrating through the office? Jasper did pack his bag and move to Las Vegas to work as a valet to be closer to his beloved Maya over the summer, but Marcus is not some scrawny teen with nothing else to lose. He might have been, once, and even then he didn't give up everything for Callie like he's ready to do for her. That thought alone sends a panicked shiver up her spine.

"Abby, I don't give a damn about the title."

She stutters and blinks tears away, trying to focus on something - like the awful pattern on the bed cover - for suddenly everything sounds so wrong. _There has to be another way_. "I can't let you do that, we managed so far, it worked-"

"Of course it worked, we're part-time, Abby, and I can't…" He trails off with a sigh and she almost sees him scratching at his nape frustrated before he admits: "I can't make do anymore."

It's her turn to fall silent, phone pressed so tight to her ear it burns uncomfortably, because she's very aware of what he's talking about. _We're part-time, Abby_. But there _has_ to be another way. _I can't make do anymore_.

"If I resign, if I'm not the Sheriff anymore, Abby, you can make a deal with the DDA, press charges against Ark Medical. With the MW scandal out other people might come forward, and you won't have to worry about me, Abby," he says softly.

The hair-drier noise has long stopped on the other side of the bathroom door, but Clarke is still wisely hiding. Abby closes her eyes and breathes out: "It doesn't feel right." It just doesn't. Like ripping Clarke off her life, her friends, her school, the home she grew up in, to start over for her own whim. _It doesn't feel right_. Not even saying goodbye.

When Clarke finally comes out of the bathroom, Abby is already under the bed covers - even if her hair is still wet and her cheeks red with salt - hiding. Clarke stops between the two beds, collects the phone from her mother's hand and rests it on the nightstand silently. Then, surprising them both, climbs in bed with her, nestling on her side like she used to when she was little - and for a minute it's unclear who's doing the comforting, because Abby kisses her hair and holds her close, and Clarke feels five again with a storm thundering outside the window.

Only this time the storm is inside, in her mother's contained weep when she whispers: "It's me and you, again, just me and you."


	20. When I was crying

_AN: so if things are not better by the end... well it's not the end  
_

* * *

 **Things you said when I was crying**

The drive back home is mostly silent, they fill it with music and at some point they even sing along, off key and laughing because Abby doesn't know all the lyrics to Taylor Swift's latest single but she tries anyway, and Clarke scoffs at her when they stop to refill and she buys a lottery ticket (passively asserting she might be luckier with money than love) along a box of cookies for the ride. She also fights the habit of texting him they arrived safely.

He doesn't, so she ends up gritting her teeth and glaring at the phone for the whole of thirteen minutes before texting back. She's not sure Clarke finds it amusing anymore, she rolls her eyes at her mother in the dim living-room as she hits _play_ on the DVR series they put on hold for their little journey.

Abby can't follow the episode's plot till she's made up her mind and by then the closing credits are rolling and Clarke is mildly annoyed by her lack of participation.

The next day, she's hiding away in a café, munching on her lunch after the morning at the hospital and its fallout, when Clarke sends her a picture (and she thinks maybe Clarke wants to torture her on purpose, but she still stares at it conflicted). He's on tv. Now the missed call she found when she was finally able to get out of that conference room takes her on a new level of anxiety. He did shave, but his hair is still too long and his skin is tanned and the scar on his lip is still begging to be kissed - Abby can't make herself delete it.

Instead she spots a TV screen on the far wall behind the counter and even if the volume is muted by the music from the radio speakers, she can still assemble the puzzle bringing up Reuters' site on her phone. Apparently, a newly widowed heiress suspected kidnapping turned out to be some Bonnie and Clyde act when Captain Shumway of the local Oakland Police Department helped Diana Sydney stage her husband's death, killed a young officer to cover after himself, then drove with the widow to Las Vegas to get married and partake in the cake of bills. Now Marcus is on national TV (with stern looking officers from two other States) as part of an operation to arrest the killer couple before they drive through Arizona and cross the southern border as it seems to be their plan.

After tossing the rest of her meal on the trashcan she tries to call him, but it rings and it rings and it rings to voicemail, and she doesn't have the strength to leave a message. What could she say, anyway? Maybe there is another way, she hasn't found it yet.

He calls back about an hour later, when she's at the Blake's, checking on Aurora's recovery - and Bellamy asks her about him and Octavia shows her the pictures they took at the fair that day and her (forced) smile hurts - but the phone is on mute when she's doing home visits and she doesn't hear it vibrate in her bag. She later finds a text message saying he's on duty and will call again once he's off.

She's still furrowing her brow, and looking offended at how ridiculous it sounds they chased after one another the whole day, as she tosses chicken nuggets in sizzling oil. The TV is on in the background on a quiz show like any other day, but today it's cut short by a live broadcast news section.

"Clarke," she calls, "come down, dinner is almost ready!"

The news reports footage of a car chase from a helicopter in the heated colors of the desert at dusk, and even the anchorwoman commenting from the studio has to whimper when the pickup truck with Shumway and Sydney pushes through the roadblock, sending patrol cars on a spin and a trail of bullet riddled metal and flesh on its wake.

"Clarke!" she calls again.

And Clarke appears, flushed and angry, at the kitchen door, still texting on her phone and talking at the same time: "Mom, what happened at the hospital today?"

Abby clucks her tongue, but replies unfazed: "Nothing, dinner is ready, put the phone down and sit."

Clarke presses then, shifting from one bare foot to the other but still standing by the door with fury in her eyes and her jaw set for battle: "Wells says his father's gone berserk, blabbering about you resigning and ruining everything, Mom. What did you do?"

Of course Jaha would make it all about himself, Abby thinks as she tosses chicken nuggets off the pan and on the drying paper with a little more vehemence than necessary. Her heart skips a beat (or several) when Clarke asks, unprompted and unyielding: "Are we moving to Arizona?"

Somewhere in the Arizona desert Marcus calls home, between mountain rocks and man-made concrete, a heap of metal that once was a patrol car is burning - and from the helicopter live footage it's unclear if people are trapped inside but she thinks there could have been blood among the shattered glass on the blacktop. She blinks and it's gone, replaced by the much more reassuring images from the studio.

"What? No," she answers as calm as she can muster.

"Then why did you leave the hospital?" asks Clarke again, oblivious to the images on the TV screen beside her.

Abby straightens and turns her back on her again, resuming her picking up of - now crispy burned - nuggets from the frypan. "I've been considering other offers. In town," she adds hastily, almost huffy. Something her daughter picks up on and, quietly, Clarke moves around the table to sit down.

"Is Sheriff Kane coming to live here?"

Abby drops a plate of blackened chicken nuggets in front of her daughter (who squints at them suspiciously, poking them with a fork) then turns around to pick up the other half of it still in the pan before answering drily: "No, Clarke, he won't."

 _It's me and you, again, just me and you_.

More patrol cars follow the pickup off-road as the anchorwoman in studio comments in the background, up until all live footage from the helicopter is cut short once again when the fugitives come to a stand off and more bullets are shot.

Clarke squirms in her seat, unsatisfied and even hungrier for answers. "Is there something I need to know?"

Nothing ever goes as it should, she tells herself, she learned that four years ago.

Abby sits in front of her and pretends nothing happened, but can't look at her daughter's skeptical face, nor focus on the food in her plate - she only registers its smoky smell and the awful burned taste when she takes the first bite and wants to cry (for several reasons). All she can think about is that one of the officers on the ground could be Marcus and the echo of his goodbyes rings in her ears louder than any lie she could concoct.

To her credit, Clarke sits in silence, poking at the untouched charred chicken in her plate with a frown and doesn't interrupt once as her mother tells her about Mount Weather, the Wallaces, her father's death, Anya's, Project Cerberus and the upcoming trial, the money, and her still unresolved decision to move against Ark Medical.

"I did it for you, Clarke," she explains around the lump in her throat, "All I'm doing is for you."

That's when her daughter stands abruptly and sends the chair scraping on the floor (which only accentuates Clarke's dramatic tendencies, much to her mother's exasperation), arguing: "And yet you never asked me what I wanted! You just assumed, you _always_ assume you know what's best!" Then she disappears upstairs again in a clash of stomping feet and slammed doors as expected.

Later, after some silent unloading of her own and tossed dinner in the trashcan (where it belonged, sadly), Abby softly knocks on the - now open again - door of Clarke's bedroom, but doesn't enter. She leans on the doorframe, arms crossed on her chest, and they stare at each other, both with red rimmed eyes, both uncertain of where they stand. There are several crumpled sheets of paper on the floor and scattered art supplies littering the bed cover where Clarke sits, ankles crossed, biting the end tip of a pencil.

"Did you call him?"

"He's... busy," Abby sniffs. "I tried his office but they wouldn't tell me anything."

"I'm sure Raven would have said something if…" Clarke leaves it unfinished and pouts at the sketchbook in her lap just to not look at her mother.

Abby hums anyway and moves to sit at the end of the bed, still careful to leave space between them - even if she aches to reconnect, the disappointment in her daughter's blue eyes stung deeper than she wants to let on.

"So, now that apparently you're the voice of reason," she teases instead, "tell me: would you want to move to Arizona?"

Clarke shakes her head somberly. "Not really."

"Would you rather Sheriff Kane leaves everything behind to come and live here?"

Ultimately, that's not ideal either, Clarke knows, too - not only because of the sacrifice it'll impose, but because Abby suspects Clarke still wouldn't want Marcus to disrupt their tight unit, ever. Abby sighs and waves her hand dismissing the conversation with a rueful smile (because she went over it a million times already in her head).

"Do you ever still think about Dad?" Abby doesn't hesitate and nods, so Clarke meekly enquires further: "Is Sheriff Kane supposed to take his place, because Dad's not here anymore?"

She'd point out Marcus isn't there either, but that wouldn't be the point. "No one is taking your father's place, Clarke, I will never forget him, I never stopped loving him, really, I-"

"Do you still love _me_?" she interrupts.

"Of course!"

"Then why risk leaving me alone if the trial doesn't go as expected and you have to go to jail?"

In her selfish, insecure teenage self, Clarke - Abby concedes - is far more practical than she'd give her credit for. She almost bursts into tears and only contains herself with a shake of her head and then Clarke is in her arms and she wishes to stop time for a while and leave it at that. But there are more pressing matters - like the growl of their stomachs - to tend to. "You hungry?"

"Starving," grins her daughter.

"Burgers?" prompts Abby with a matching conspiratorial grin.

Clarke thinks for a few seconds longer - leaving Abby unsettled for suddenly she thinks she doesn't know her girl anymore - but doesn't let her wait too long. "We can get them on the way," she says confidently, "Since I'm obviously in charge now, I want you as far away as possible from both Cage and Dante Wallace, Mom, and I'm not sure Arizona is far enough, but it'll do for now."

Abby hesitates, so Clarke rolls her eyes and explains, midway between annoyed and amused (because, really, her mother should know already): "You could do worse than Sheriff Kane, he's... ok, I guess." Then she adds as an afterthought, just for emphasis: "You were miserable for those four days you didn't get to talk, not to mention constantly breathing down my neck. At least when he's around I get to live a little."

Definitely, Abby didn't give her girl enough credit up till now. She bites her lip to stifle a giggle.

They don't really pack. Clarke puts Converse on and shoves a sketchbook, pencils and phone in a backpack, her mother barely remembers to take her phone charger. Abby is far less concerned with keeping her car pristine at all times than Marcus is, so she and Clarke get take-away cheeseburgers, chicken nuggets and fries flooded with ketchup before turning on the 605. She wouldn't think it wise, nor necessary ( _it's straight up foolish, that's what it is_ , screams her brain, _you're following advices from a thirteen year old!_ ), but she finds driving at night with Clarke humming to the radio tune and occasionally chatting quite soothing to her nerves.

It's past one in the morning when they finally turn on the 15 and traffic picks up some pace and in Abby sinks the idea she's really doing this, she's really going to drive all the way to him on a whim - because even his landline gave a busy signal and that feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't go away.

"I know this song," says Clarke startling her out of her worry.

The radio is transmitting a compilation of _party rock_ at this hour of the night and, against odds, Abby's smile slowly spreads as she hums the chorus lines herself. "I used to sing it to you before bed, remember?"

"Yes," confirms Clarke, lost in thoughts, "I like your version better."

And Abby has to genuinely laugh. "Poor Axl Rose!"

Even Clarke smiles, a bit awkwardly, looking so much like Jake when the headlights of passing cars hit her eyes. Abby thinks it's probably the first compliment she ever had from her daughter in a long time, but instead of making her sad, it sends a warm feeling down her spine, like a new constant has just been cemented. And maybe they're building new ground.

As if the memory of her childhood lullaby had some sort of magical power over her - which most probably is kin with the late hour and the car motion - Clarke slumbers soon after and Abby is left with the last lines of the song echoing in her head for the rest of the night. _Where do we go, where do we go now, sweet child of mine?_

She drives and drives along a now familiar road and only stops once in front of his house - and waits there, sitting in the white Ford Focus beside her sleeping girl, for a few minutes longer, since the road is empty, his Mustang is in the driveway, the lights in the porch are off, the sun slowly rises in the East. And panic with it, inside.

It could be the lack of sleep and the exhaustion, or she could be dreaming, she feels so out of her own skin she has to check her pulse (still a bit of tachycardia is not uncommon for her, she reassures herself). The air is hot and dry, the sky is alight with pink and a light breeze sweeps the street when she cautiously climbs the steps and rings the doorbell once. Then twice, just in case. It is all very quiet (compared to the fire and the bullets at dusk from the news last night), so quiet she can almost hear her quick heartbeat and then his footfalls after a while, before he opens the door - and when he recognizes her the screen door, too - and he squints at her surprised, tilting his head in question.

She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Instead water wells up in her eyes as she looks him up and down, ruffled hair and sleepy eyes, the shadow of a stubble - but alive, very much alive and with all his limbs - and she chokes on words she didn't rehearse.

"I was afraid that I wouldn't see you again."

Marcus stares back enthralled, blinking as if to make sure she's not a trick of the morning light he still needs to accustom to, then says, quietly:

"I had those fears myself."

* * *

 _AN2: hee :D I love canon that much_


	21. When you were crying

_AN: I'm just so happy you're reading XD almost there *merrily chomps on cookies*  
_

* * *

 **Things you said when you were crying**

There's a clock ticking time away in the back of his mind since she said goodbye, it shakes the ground, it shifts his feet, it makes him run, it sounds like rifle shots (they glow in the dark behind his eyelids if he closes his eyes) and he just wants it to stop, to shut it out, to silence it. Painkillers dulled it but there was only that much he could take. He feels groggy and slow, heavy, unsteady, even if he's barely standing there, with a hand still on the door handle for balance and his eyes anchored on hers.

It's been a long thirty-seven hour shift and a very short five hour night. He's not sure of anything now, not even Abby nervously clenching and unclenching fists on his porch, looking small in a blue shirt and white shorts - reminding him of Clarke the first time they met. Abby, who should be over four-hundred miles away and not sniffing back tears in the peach morning light; _Abby_ , whom he dreamed about last night and woke up to the thought of; _Abby_ , whom he hasn't held in over a month and missed so much he thinks he might be projecting now.

 _I was afraid that I wouldn't see you again_ , she says, and Earth stops spinning. He was _afraid_ , too. He was scared, even, terrified of the things he would have done (that he _did_ ) without her. He tries to tell her that but it comes out... differently: _I had those fears myself_ doesn't really explain why he ran in the middle of gunfire, caution be damned - and it's not that he asked himself what would have Abby done, but it would have been _that_ anyway.

He tentatively brushes the back of his hand on hers - _she's here_ , he reassures himself, _she's real_ \- and she traps his fingers in hers, pulls, mumbles something against his chest he doesn't understand. But who cares, she's in his arms again, warm and solid, and not imaginary.

"You weren't answering the phone," she repeats a bit more committedly, her voice still muffled by his shirt and his arms, too tight, "I saw the news last night, with the fire, they talked about casualties, and you weren't answering the phone."

It's not an actual reproach, her tone is too distraught to sound accusing, he still picks up the (poorly) veiled request for explanations and can only hug her tighter, just feeling her hair tangling around his fingers and her heartbeat against his. She smells like vanilla and coconut (like the half finished shampoo bottle she forgot in his bathroom) but her skin is not sweet - her tears are not charming, her sobs are not endearing - when he kisses her eyes, her wet cheeks, her pulse point. It's fear he tastes and it's that fear he can relate to.

It's been a bad day. A never ending pulling through to the next round-up, the next roadblock, the next emergency, the next coffee, the next notification. It's been the longest day since that crumbling supermarket almost eight years back and its still crippling toll, one he had to force himself to crawl out alive once again. But he almost didn't.

He almost didn't.

"I disconnected the phone," he simply tells her in the end, brushing away tears and strands from her face, "Work emergency only."

"I called your office and they wouldn't tell me anything!" she protests fisting the fabric of his shirt into her grip. He should feel pain flaring through his bruised ribs, making him wince; instead her arms around him are achingly soothing, like the swaying he doesn't know which of them started - it could be his head swimming in medication, but the motion is lulling, comforting - like they're finding a rhythm.

He hears himself speaking softly and toneless not to disrupt it: "My dispositions; we still needed to notify the families last night, I didn't want to risk them knowing from fishing reporters."

She processes his answer silently, studying him for a few seconds before resting her ear on his heart and listening to it skipping beats while he wraps his mind around her presence - squinting at the light grazing her car in front of his house and the dust in the air. He buries his nose in the crook of her neck just to breathe her in, to erase the smell of fire and ashes that still lingers in his nostrils.

He hopes he's not hallucinating. He has little doubt the Abby Griffin he knows would drive all night just to make sure he's alive (she would even bring her daughter). But the Abby Griffin he loves would trust him when he said he was fine.

"I sent you a message last night, told you I was crashing in bed and would call in the morning," he mumbles brushing lips against her warm skin.

"What? No, you didn't," she squeaks, flinching in his arms.

"Yes, I…" Could he have been hallucinating _that_ instead? "I wrote it," he affirms with more certainty than he really feels. Or did he dream about writing her? He must have written Raven, too. Or was she at the hospital? Someone must have driven him back home...

"Well I never received it!" She glares at him, sniffling a little, "Maybe you sent it to your _other_ girlfriend."

"I don't have another girlfriend," he protests unreasonably.

She just presses her lips together and he knows she's mocking him, so he bends to kiss her nose and she finally lets out a giggle, then sneaks her hands up to cup his stubbly cheeks. He blushes, feeling a pang of regret for the juvenile impulse he followed in shaving his beard - not quite to spite her, but to make himself feel things were different, perhaps. He would say something stupid like _I'm sorry I shaved_ , or some other equally unnecessary apology, but her thumb sweeps across his bottom lip - it stops on his scar - and she stands on tiptoes to kiss him square on the mouth like she did that first time, when she ran barefoot in the street outside her house.

It's an awakening of sort, like watching himself from another angle: here's the dumbass standing barefoot on his threshold, with a plain white tank top and his knee length joggers (the only things he could find trailing around his bed to put on his nakedness before answering the doorbell), looking rumpled and hiding bruises; he's the fool kissing her back and forgetting how to breathe as she runs her fingers in his hair; he's the same tool who typed a message on his phone last night while discarding clothes and fell asleep before he could make sure to get an answer.

He pulls back abruptly, staring into her dark questioning eyes and suddenly feeling so... old.

"I didn't hit send," he confesses. "I wrote the message, and I didn't hit send," he repeats hopelessly.

Her concerned look morphes into an incredulous one when she tilts her head - probably collecting a string of swears as it occurs to the both of them she drove all night worried sick because he forgot to swipe his index on the phone screen one last time - then a mildly amused snigger.

"We're too old for this... new technology dating," she chortles, "I need you so much closer."

He touches his forehead to hers, torn between being annoyed with himself and pleased at having her securely wrapped in his arms, lingering just a little, and they both quietly chuckle at each other, swaying in the morning light.

Behind the car window, Clarke's golden head pokes out, catching his attention. She peers silently at them through sleepy eyes for a while, till Marcus - still entangled in Abby's embrace - shifts his palms from where they are cupping Abby's bottom to a safer place, on the small of her back, smiles at her sheepishly (while she smiles back amused) and she presses a hand on the glass as hello.

"Since you're here now," Marcus says softly waving at Clarke to join them, "how about pancakes for breakfast?"

Abby's eyes crinkle when she laughs and he thinks maybe nothing else really matters.

He'll tell her about the roadblock and the shooting and the fire that killed two of his men (and four more from the Las Vegas team), he'll shower and put on his uniform and write and read and sign reports about the last couple of days - failures the press and the public already turned into successes somehow, since Shumway is dead and Sydney is under bars - then he'll show up at the hospital again to check on Byrne, who's likely to lose the use of her left arm, and attend funerals for the rest of the week.

There'll be time later to tell Abby how he got his bruises, or maybe he won't need to, maybe she'll read right through his new scars, maybe she knows already he got into the line of fire - deliberately, praying the vest would be enough to keep him alive - because Shumway was stalling and paramedics couldn't get close, and he needed to _do_ something he couldn't ask of anyone else; find an opening, or make one, pull the trigger.

Maybe she knows he does what he has to do and never shares the burden - because that's what she used to do, too - and maybe that's why she's here setting the kitchen table with Clarke while he makes pancakes, teasing each other for burning dinner and eating take-away fast-food in the car or failing at _sexting_ (as Clarke put it). And maybe, _maybe_ , things are going to change.

There'll be time to rearrange the pieces and see where they fit now. For the moment, he feels the best he can do is cherish Abby's presence and Clarke's tolerating, knowing smirk. For the moment, the three of them belong around that table.


	22. With no space between us

_AN: Yes, the leaked 'bend over' line is here :D you're welcome_

* * *

 **Things you said with no space between us**

In the end, too many things to list happen in the space of a few hours that lead to this very moment, on a still hot September night, in his bathroom, brushing his teeth after dinner and contemplating the greens and light yellows, and the slowly fading spots of purple of his bruised chest (where Shumway's bullets hit the vest) in the mirror.

Thelonious Jaha calling Abby that afternoon (as the new president of Ark Medical, no less) to offer her the job she left the day before is just the latest of those _many_ things he doesn't want to think about.

Though he can't ignore it indefinitely, Marcus can't pretend to like it. Abby will be back any minute and they will have to talk, make decisions, together (preferably, involving Clarke, too); no more chasing each other, no more avoiding the subject, no more _if_ s... Something's gotta give. And what does he have to offer? A broken shell of a man with very few certainties, a home in the desert, no glamorous life and empty hands.

He contemplates his reflection, in the cold spotlight hanging on the mirror, casting deep shadows on his face, and sighs as deep as his aching ribs allow, because he looks as tired - and miserable - as he feels. Raven would smack him on the head with the latest issue of _Motor Trend_ , again - like when he refused the shop monthly rent for almost half of the first year... or when he most recently shaved - reminding him self-loath isn't in fashion nowadays, and that Abby loves him, anyway, _God knows why, you're as thick as a brick when it comes to women!_

He finally bends to spit toothpaste in the sink and rinse his mouth, and when he lifts eyes on the mirror again she's there in the doorway, with his _Dark Side of the Moon_ shirt and her hair in a braid, looking like she doesn't belong.

"Clarke?" he enquires.

Abby drops her shoulders - and the plastic bag on the floor - then walks in the light, sneaks her arms around him, hugging him delicately, and speaks against his sore skin between feather light kisses. "Snapchatting with Octavia. We talked on the way back, she's fine," she says keeping eye contact through the mirror.

She wasn't fine before dinner, Marcus knew as soon as he walked in to find them both huddled together on the couch with puffy eyes and stony faces.

 _She's a handful, your doctor_ , Callie had commented over the phone after their very first encounter.

 _Aren't you all_ , he'd shot back.

She had laughed with mirth then, and prodded: _This one's gonna wreak havoc if you let her_.

He has no doubt Abby can move mountains. And if the mountain won't budge it'll crumble - Mount Weather certainly collapsed. Cage Wallace found himself on her warpath and didn't have the decency (or the common sense) to step aside; no, the day Abby Griffin walked out of Ark Medical with a cardboard box full of the few things she still had in her office, everyone knew what it was about, and thus an urgent board meeting was called that same afternoon to decide on a contingency plan (since all else failed). And when the board chose, seven in favor and two against, to strip Dante Wallace of the presidency and exclude him from further meetings to spare the hospital a possible lawsuit linked with MW Pharmaceuticals most recent scandal, he called his son.

It was Abby's worry that had her follow Clarke's impulsive decision to hit the road, his failed text message, Callie's meticulous foresight to set up a young officer in Virginia, slumped on a coffee mug, recording Cage Wallace's surveilled phone number, and it was probably some cosmic triangulation that spared him a bullet through the head and made sure all those fortuitous little things would lead to her standing behind him in the harsh light of his bathroom, holding him gently in her arms and brushing soft lipped kisses on his shoulder this very moment. Practically a miracle.

That same night Abby Griffin took her daughter and drove all the way to Marcus', at approximately nine minutes past three in the morning, someone on the Wallaces payroll broke into her house with a syringe and ill intentions. It was sheer dumb luck - if nothing else - that they found empty rooms and a patrol waiting outside.

He'll never be more grateful, happy, lucky - blessed, even - than he feels right now.

The first thing Callie did before picking up the phone to check on Abby and her daughter was to file for a restricting order on the Wallaces, and freeze both their personal bank accounts as well.

It didn't stop Clarke getting worked up over the dodged possibility her mother could have been murdered last night and she readily agreed with Marcus' suggestion to stay awhile. It took Abby a single glance at his serious face to swallow any reply. The tension running through the three of them over dinner only feeded the dread-shaped stone weight sitting on the bottom of his stomach, and he could have sworn, he could feel it in his guts, none of them wanted to even acknowledge the truth that, probably, that syringe filled with MW serum was always meant for Clarke. What better retaliation than to poison, cripple, and take away Abby's greatest love, her only daughter? It would undoubtedly destroy her.

He senses a new surge of anger laced with fear (that mostly feels like retching) just thinking about it. But then Abby's eyelashes leave a trail of tickling butterfly kisses on his back, and her breath - her whole body, really - is warm and comforting as her hands roam on his chest soothingly and then wander further, dipping down under the worn elastic band of his pajama bottom.

It takes so little for his frame of mind to shift axes. "You're in a mood," he remarks.

"I want you to love me," she answers in an impossibly low voice that goes straight to his groin - helping to speed up matters.

He has to chuckle, locking eyes with hers in the mirror to see them shining with smug confidence.

"I do already." He turns in her arms and she just lets him, keeping her hands firmly inside his pants (to grab his buttocks instead) while he kisses her sweetly on the lips.

"I got you the good stuff," she whispers between pecks and teasing lip bites that drive him crazy. He eyes the bag abandoned on the floor with the _Walgreens_ logo and she nods.

"I love you even more," he declares to the crook of her neck, feeling her laugh rippling through his ribcage and the resulting sharp sting that cuts his breath short.

He's not one to complain about physical pain but Abby insisted - she claimed he was restraining himself from breathing normally because of it and, in a series of domino like cause-effect he stopped listening to when it got too long and increasingly scary, it might lead to lung infection and other terrible consequences - so after dinner she took her daughter for a walk to the nearest pharmacy and back, and at present he's mostly convinced it was not such a bad idea after all.

"Remember that," she says then with a devious grin and a certain glee that has his senses alert almost instantly. He studies with squinting eyes the curve at the corner of her lips and the way she can't suppress a giggle and he almost fails to notice she is still merrily fondling his rear till she finally admits: "I got the injection type."

"What?! Why?" he asks making his best impression of a betrayed man strangled last words.

"It'll work faster," she answers dismissively, then slaps his buttock lightly and commands with velvety voice: "Come on, bend over."

"I shouldn't be this turned on," he mutters as he leans on the sink and watches her retrieve a vial from the box in the bag and fill a disposable syringe.

She has the nerve to giggle again, looking adorable with her bottom lip between her teeth, while he stands there nervously bracing himself to the sink. "Off with those pants," she orders, "I'm gonna pinch that ass."

"You sadistic little minx…"

"I'll make it up to you later," she promises suggestively.

They lock eyes through the mirror again, both laughing, both looking hopelessly smitten with one another, even when she playfully slaps his butt again before disinfecting and injecting with precise, expert movements.

He forgets all about the pain and the irrational cold sweat running down his spine after that. They lie in bed for awhile, trying to find a comfortable position that won't put pressure on his ribs, then settle for their sides, tangling legs and facing each other even if they don't talk and don't sleep for a long time, kissing lazily and sloppily feeling about - without really going anywhere because Clarke is still awake in the other room and the door is open - and his skin is tingling and warming under her touch for more pleasurable reasons than his _trypanophobia_ (as she called it once).

He knows all too well he'll make do with whatever she decides - she's been in charge all the while - so, between wet, hot open mouthed kisses, he just asks: "What do you wanna do?"

"I want to be with you," she answers simply, tumbling words against his scruffy jaw.

In earnest, that's what he's hoped for all along, but now... God knows the feel in the pit of his stomach has a name and he doesn't want this to be the reason she stays.

"No," she reassures him lightly stroking a finger against his chest, "No, that's what I'd want anyway and what Clarke wants now, too."

"Clarke wants to feel you're safe; she's scared, it's normal after…" he trails off, "She thinks distance will help, and I, too, desperately want you to never leave my sight again," he confesses squeezing his eyes and feeling foolish for how absurd the sentiment is once spoken out loud, but she smiles amused, "I just don't want this to be a decision made in fear, Abby."

"It's not," she repeats, "Clarke told me she looked into the University of Arizona pre-med courses already, can you believe that?" she adds making a face. That's not news, at least not to him. He smiles at her, combing her now loose braided hair off her face, where they fell when she propped herself up on her hand. "She's thirteen. And I thought she wanted to be an artist... an architect maybe."

"She said art doesn't save lives like you do."

Abby stills. "What?"

"She said she was considering becoming a doctor, earlier, while drying dishes, because you save lives. You certainly do," he confirms tightening his hold on her when she wrinkles her nose. He knows how fragile their relationship is. She thinks she buried her daughter's respect with her husband but he sees how Clarke still looks up to her as a touchstone. Clarke found out early on that her mother was only a flawed human being (like the rest of them) after all, and she's now slowly, painfully rediscovering Abby's better characteristics. It's a difficult process, an emotional minefield for a teenager negotiating her independency at the same time. "She wants to be a good guy," he says gently.

"There are no good guys," she comments ruefully hiding shining eyes and falling back on the pillow and in his arms. "I can maybe save the bodies. Art would save her soul."

He bumps his nose against hers and kisses her eyes then, making her smile and sigh tiredly.

"She will figure it out," he whispers holding her impossibly close.

* * *

 _AN2: gosh, I hope you're not too disappointed XD_


	23. At the kitchen table

_AN: yep, this is the end. Thanks for sticking with this story! :)_

* * *

 **Things you said at the kitchen table**

"I can't _believe_ we're having this conversation!"

"I just don't understand why you should sleep on the ground when you have a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs," replies Abby unfazed.

Clarke sighs, loudly and frustrated, throwing her hands up to the kitchen ceiling for emphasis, and articulates: "Because it's the whole purpose of _camping_?! To be _outside_!"

Her mother tosses her braid off her shoulder - a dead give-away she's at her wit's end - and keeps chopping carrots, arguing at the same time, which could potentially result in domestic disaster if she weren't _The Unyielding Doc Griffin_ (as Octavia calls her). "I'm sparing you a horrible experience Clarke, you'll thank me later, when you're older and don't have arthritis."

Clarke drops her arms and stares at her mother across the table - throwing daggers - silently witnessing Marcus enter the room and slip a hand around Abby's waist to grab a carrot stick while she's distracted by a kiss on the cheek. He smiles at the teenager too and sits down at the kitchen table discreetly chomping on the vegetable.

It's twenty to seven on a Thursday evening and the July sun is still filtering in the room through the shutters in warm rays, illuminating dancing dust at the rhythm of the ceiling fan. Marcus starts peeling the shell off of the hard-boiled eggs left to cool in a bowl, and pretends not to notice the tension in the room.

Clarke clucks her tongue. "Wells and Octavia, and even Bellamy, are coming here in Arizona for a weekend in the canyons just to see _me_ , Mom, how can I _not_ be there?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Clarke," taunts her mother in her condescending tone, "of course you'll see them, it's just an hour away, I'll drive you there and back."

"What? Mom, please, Lexa is my age and she'll come to camp with Lincoln!" Who is her seventeen year old cousin, trained lifeguard at the local pool, and will probably be there on their family request to babysit them (but Abby does not need to know that).

"Lexa is not my daughter," is all Abby has to say on the matter.

"But-"

Abby only raises her eyes from the cutting board, stilling her hand, and Clarke falls silent, because it's her mother's _no more discussion_ look and she's counting the days to her sixteenth birthday (now less than two years away) when she'll have a driving license and won't need to beg her for a ride.

She also bites her tongue to avoid spitting out words she doesn't really believe and would regret that same instant. _There's always Raven_ , she thinks; Raven usually backs her up (and Clarke tries not to think of her as a big sister, which is pointless by now), but Raven can't really help her this time. So Clarke shifts target: "Kane?"

Marcus looks up from his task like a deer caught in headlights - as he generally does when forced to take sides in the household - to find both women pointedly looking at him. Poor Kane, cornered in his own house like a tamer in the lion's cage. He must think they are some feral feline breed, ripping each other's throats one minute and cuddling on the couch like kittens the next (because that's the nature of their relationship, with her mother, it's fierce and antagonistic, but oddly possessive, Clarke can't deny it). She wonders if he ever mourn a time this house was quiet and still and _his_ \- like when he walked in in the middle of an impromptu _Shut up and Dance_ choreography in the living-room the other week, and was pulled into it right at the reprise - but he's usually good sport, Clarke must give him that.

She almost feels sorry for putting him in the spotlight like this at times. Just not now.

His gaze shifts from mother to daughter before he slowly parts his lips and ducks to take time. "Well, it's just an hour away," and he pauses. Clarke feels like throttling him, betrayed (but if she's honest with herself, later she'll recognize she's being overly dramatic), until he continues: "And I'll have a patrol nearby, Abby, they'll be perfectly safe."

So he thinks the real issue is her potentially heading into trouble and her mother won't be there to prevent it? Her heart sinks. But one look at Abby and Clarke decides she better cherish meagre gain than press for unattainable victories. Abby flattens her lips in a thin line (like she does before explaining just _how disappointed_ she is) and that's Clarke's cue to leave the battlefield. "Thanks Sheriff," she mutters with contempt, stomping her bare feet all the way upstairs for show.

She stops at the top of the steps and sits down on the floorboard, leaning against the wall, covered from view from the kitchen, and listens - like she does every time there is an argument she cannot wrap her mind around.

On the opposite wall there's a composition of squared card sized embroidered letters to form the family name Vera Kane framed about twenty years ago. They were in the kitchen when they first moved in last October, but were relocated there when Abby decided to redecorate that wall with chalkboard paint - a choice that the artist in Clarke embraced wholeheartedly and Marcus passively accepted like the rest of Abby's interior design choices. On the plus side, the new position of the four frames now gives her a fragmented insight on what is going on around the kitchen table (where it seems most meaningful conversations always take place) reflected in their glasses.

"Since we all know it's obviously not about arthritis, then why can't Clarke go camping with her friends?"

From her hidden spot on top of the stairs Clarke silently smiles at Marcus, who unexpectedly became her best ally in dealing with her mother since... even before they moved in.

"Because... I know what they'll be up to and I don't trust teenage boys."

"What?" Marcus' disbelieving face matches Clarke's, "You mean Wells who, despite harboring Jaha's genes, is the most respectful and well mannered fourteen year old I've ever met, but will probably never get a chance with his _best-friend-forever_ Clarke; and seventeen year old Bellamy Blake, who's likely to have no interest in fourteen year olds?" he points out - and it's a stab to Clarke's back in a way, she has to bite her lip. Because Octavia talks about Bellamy all the time and she's seen pictures of him in the last few months and she must admit he's growing on her, with his freckles and his brooding attitude, sharp comments and long curly locks falling on his eyes. As for Wells, he has been doing a lot of sports since she's gone, which did wonders to his shape; she still thinks they'll never be more than best friends but Kane shouldn't know _that_. How does he know _that_?

Abby drops the knife and shakes her head, sending a warm gold cast off hue when the light hits her hair and it glows like a halo. Even when she's crossed with her, Clarke can recognize her mother is beautiful. She wishes she had her notes and pencil to sketch the scene reflected in the glass and try to capture that spark of unleashed, raw energy she hopes she's inherited.

"They won't be the only ones around and in any case, I know teens, Marcus, and I know Clarke. She's too curious for her own good... I know _I_ was at her age," Abby grumbles.

 _That's just so embarrassing_ , Clarke cringes while Marcus downstairs merely looks amused.

Her mother is making assumptions anyway. She should have told her she was going to accept Lexa's suggestion and share the tent with her. Their respective first impression had been terrible - mostly due to Lexa's _resting bitch face_ and Clarke's self-assured, confident act - but the girl is witty and funny underneath the cool facade and once she got to know her better they bonded quite easily. Lexa was probably the most excited about the camping idea, Clarke feels a pang of guilt at letting her down if the weekend falls through.

"You can't lock her up, you know," Marcus reasons as her mother sets aside carrots to start slicing tomatoes, "she needs to make experiences, be it camping and sleeping on the ground, or other; so what if she wants to _experiment_? Think of it that way: what if she likes girls?" (to which Clarke's cheeks flush instantly) "What if she likes girls and she was off camping with only female friends, she'd probably _experiment_ anyway, wouldn't you let her go then?"

Clarke, on top of the stairs, sits perfectly still and drags all saints down the heavens in her mind (not really knowing why exactly), suddenly feeling like eavesdropping on this conversation was a huge mistake, yet unable to not keep listening. Because now it's too late, now she needs to know and be forever deceived by her mother passing judgment (and she's not ready to rip again that fragile bond they are so slowly, and with so much effort, rebuilding); or forever pretend not to know. Abby was right: she _is_ too curious for her own good and it's going to blow up in her face.

But her mother just purses her lips and hisses: "Another girl wouldn't get her accidentally pregnant!"

And that's it. Boys are hot, and a whole different world to discover, but girls are _so_ pretty and much easier to approach - and she doesn't really know how she feels about it - but all Abby cares about are resulting medical conditions. Clarke almost bursts out laughing.

Marcus nods: "Fair point," he concedes. "Do you want me to show up at camp with the team in full combat gear and instill the fear of God and men on every boy in a thirty mile radius?"

Abby laughs at that and Clarke covers her giggles too, watching her forget the tomatoes, dry her hands on a kitchen cloth and sit on his lap graciously.

"You'd do that," she states, amused.

"Yeah, and Clarke would hate me forever," he remarks before burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Clarke is about to have enough and leave them to their (unintentional) display of affection when she hears his muffled next words: "I think you should have the talk."

 _The Talk_? That _talk_ they had early on when she was a wee child of seven and her mother dropped in her hands a book about anatomy (for children). Clarke can just imagine how awkward it's been for her parents to answer her naif questions then, but now... now it'd be even more awkward for _her_. Unless her mother decides to drop on her bed another book or sneak a bunch of pamphlets in her backpack, then nag her with questions - which would be more her style, but not Kane's.

From the depth of her horrified imagination, already concocting the most cringe worthy scenarios, Clarke hears her mother answering: "She is a child, she's not having sex, Marcus, not for the next ten years."

"Your _child_ is fourteen, Abby, and she has internet access, she probably knows everything there is to know already, maybe even more than you and I both. She's a level-headed young girl, you did a great job, give yourself some credit and have a little faith in her: she needs to make mistakes to learn, make her own decisions, test her freedom…" he says softly against her throat, drawing soothing circles on her back with his thumb while Abby bristles in his lap, uncomfortable with what she's told. "You can only make sure she makes _informed_ decisions when, you know, she'll be too wrapped up in the moment to be smart about it. In ten years," he adds mockingly.

Clarke sits there, red to the top of her ears, dreading the time she'll have to actually hear all about those _information_ , but can't help feeling a little bit grateful for Marcus' objective point of view. He really is a tamer of spirits, she thinks. Her mother is finally happy, but _she_ is the really lucky one. A realization that comes paired with guilt for never really expressing any gratitude - in plain teenager style. He's not her Dad, he'll never be, but he seems to be as supportive as, and the only one who can talk to her mother like that - like family. He's also, overall, a nice guy. Her mother could have done a lot worse. (Clarke virtually high-fives her).

"You know, you could ask for Raven's help: she'll show up with a selection of cucumbers and zucchinis, and spare condoms," continues Marcus leaning back on the chair. "Just let me know when it happens so I don't walk in on vegetable violation," he says making Abby throatily laugh.

Clarke smiles, too, vaguely imagining someone who might make her laugh like that.

"Have you had _the talk_ with Raven when…"

"Nah, I talked to Finn."

"Did it go well?"

"Well, yes," he says frowning, "I tried to joke and suggest he waited to be wed so they made a run for Vegas two days later to get married. But they got caught with fake IDs and were returned home." They both chuckle and it's refreshing, in a way. Clarke mentally notes to ask Raven about it later, but just keeps listening to the sound of happy voices. In the fragmented image of the kitchen in the glass, her mother stands up, entertained, and Marcus holds her hands, that way Clarke's seen in movies, brushing his thumb on the finger where a ring should be, making her heart race, unable to decipher what she's hoping for.

Abby snorts just to become serious soon after. "I just want Clarke to be as happy as I am now, one day," she confesses. He smirks that cheeky grin of his and they kiss after that, achingly sweet and languid, tangling hands in hair and clinging to one another in the warm dying summer day, like the rest of the world is not watching.

Clarke sighs and closes her eyes letting her head fall back against the wall - not exactly disturbed - and sees Bellamy's warm, freckled skin, Octavia's dark hair swinging around her as she turns, the sharp curve of Lexa's hip when she stretches in gym class, Wells' familiar, sheepish white smile, the calming, comforting raise and fall of her father's chest just before falling asleep on his lap, the shadow of Raven's eyelashes on her cheeks when she's working, Kane's perfect hands, dirty with soil, as he tends to his potted plants, and her mother's eyes, squinting in the desert sun with that tempting, alluring strike of copper and gold.

 _People are beautiful_ , she thinks grimly, sketches will never grasp how they make her feel or the sound of their voices, the warmth of a touch, the memory of a perfume, but she can paint a pretty thorough image of love in her head with just that, around a kitchen table.

* * *

 _The end._


End file.
